bàishén [拜神] - Alyssa Yap

i’ve never felt so envious of paper. you lick
your finger before flipping the page. lick, flip. lick, 

flip. novel, newspaper, magazine, joss paper. perhaps this 
is why you’re so clever. lick. you note my parched lips. i let myself 

imagine sin. a corner, a shed, a bed, a shrine. i want 
you studying my shoulders instead of the times. staring down 

my spine, tracing my jaw. where lingering eyes can’t lie 
a ravenous thaw. if i were a boy 

my blush would be a call. skin colored not just
from being sunburnt raw. do you know i visit so often 

my family worries i’ll be a nun. perhaps 
i already am. kneeling before all these gods imagining 

my knees elsewhere. lifting my gaze upwards to a face i’d know 
anywhere. ash falls on my skin—i know

what it means. you tease my piety in prayer. i know 
what they see. i let you braid my hair and trace my palm. loop, 

flick. loop, flick. a burn. a sear. a lingering fear. rotten 
reminders of dreams where i know only

these fingers. flick. you ask how i sleep.