Luca Lum


partition I

omniscience is a
group speaking at one standard,

made to circumvent
standard deviations like
yourself, cunt warrior

you are divided
flesh lung spleen thorax finger
a poem through and through

hollow whistling cacophony through bone

partition II

I could hate the one whom I love, who has hurt me
I could hate whom I love, who has hurt me, and desire redress

I could live life through the turbulence of my feeling, and desire redress
The turbulence of my feeling is precisely what drives me toward redress

My love is a form of redress between the violences of myself

Hate undresses me

Love undresses me as well

partition III

how do you develop a language for want, let alone a language for what
remains wanting?

partition IV

If you swallow hard enough, facts dress a feeling, a cipher for what remains wanting

partition V

In a poem, a fact like:

“[We do] not believe these to be the actions of a person who is afraid of her partner”

becomes brittle without the scaffolds of its surrounding sentences.

partition VI

if you swallow hard enough, the facts dress a feeling, a cipher for what remains wanting. words are finding their forms in the dark, find themselves much later, often after distorted exposure, like a bone swallowed, moving its way up a gullet. neither of you found the adquate words to name it as it first rippled its way through — a bone arc, ripped out of the pink of a throat and into the trees. the wind whistled through its spinning form and cried those names. distance opens up; flying bone unrolling landscape like a brush. bone eventually curving back, hitting you on the side. catching it you think it is the wrong bone, a funny bone, shaped Y and twisting, the air has informed its shape … yet we say the words … this is the bone!

but it was not what was swallowed. that had a stranger shape, born to a world of insides, born between you and your other. so swallowed, a bone travels downward, sharpening its point ... while the twisting bone shines on in a room where a woman remains curled, muffled, pacing, and returning to. next to her is a projection of a man, his actions in a strange tango with hers. the bone is on her night stand, twisting its shape. she weighs it in her hands, holds in on her stomach, and considers her insides accordingly. he does the same. Boomerang, she says, and it cracks her side open.