In Beijing, the temple was a karaoke lounge
& my bubble tea order was a terror-wrought mantra.
That night we almost died in the bike lane, zipping deep chevrons
in the rainwater, charged with sewage, I wanted to laugh & laugh.
Blood—so improbable. The opposite of feel—leef.
All roads after dark festooned, strangely, with leaves.
You said I’m toasting myself! For going to Mars!
The clock face washed over in red neon.
The possibility of pain existing only within one rainswept song.
All I wanted was to hide in the pixel folds of your half-sleeve
until the breaking stopped. All I wanted was to recycle
the stupid bleeding anthem of your country, to crouch so close
that you could hear it beating in my mouth, in my hair.
But someone has lived & died in this time.
Many windows are obscured from this angle in the street.
Black locust flowers dust the backs of these motorcycles.

Mackenzie Duan is a student at the University of Cambridge. Their work appears or is forthcoming in The Adroit Journal, the minnesota review, Black Warrior Review, Electric Literature, Gulf Coast, and elsewhere.