The Girl Who Was Thursday Night

it is like this with love_black and white

The Girl Who Was Thursday Night
Nokyoung Xayasane

There was a girl
who was Thursday night.
She would walk down the street,
and men would call out to her.
They would look at her
with an unquenchable need,
a thirst, and a hunger.
She would smile and their
world would expand.
She would turn away
and their bodies
crumpled to the floor.
She would speak
and they would hang
on her every word,
her every syllable.
She would pause,
and their mouths
would gape open.
She would wait a
second longer
and then continue.
They would
inhale sharply.
They would
stumble and bumble,
they would trip and fall,
and swallow hard.

She could stand at the corner
of a crosswalk and feel
a pressure against her sleeve,
a hand on her arm,
and she would know
before turning,
that she would be
looking into
the face of yearning,
she would be staring into
human weakness.

When this girl is sick
with a little cold,
men will offer to bring her
chicken noodle soup
straight to her door.
She will get three such offers
and ignore them all,
not out of cruelty
but out of pity,
but still there will be
someone at the door
holding cups and cups
of chicken noodle soup.
She has learned
that the soup is for them,
and not for her.

The girl who was Thursday night
has a lot to choose from
and yet
there is no one to choose from.
When they touch her
she is already disappearing,
she is already gone.
When they want to hold her,
she will allow it.
She will breathe easily,
she will breathe them in,
calm and languid,
trying to remember
the feel of their skin,
their need to connect,
to belong, to feel valued,
coddled and praised,
reprimanded and shunned,
and she will give it to them,
she will give them these things,
she will give them
these things,
at least and easily.

She will hold
the memory of them
as an explorer who has
already said her farewells.
She will lie with them
in the night,
in the morning,
in the late afternoon.
It takes nothing
away from her.
She feels no shame,
she feels no lasting sorrow.

The girl who was Thursday night
will live on
in the imagination
of the painter,
a sketch against a screen, a caricature,
the actor,
a dark monologue on an empty stage,
hollow and bleak,
the writer,
a paragraph of prose, prophetic and wise,
the musician,
a lyric that hangs in the air,
eternal and bright.
They see her
as they want to see her.
She gives them something,
she fills a need
for a brief and beautiful time.
And her own need is filled,
a need to slake her new appetite.
She is ravenous now
for that first

And every day
is different for her.
Her mind opens up
fresh and alive.
The sparrows outside
call to her with their song,
the May sunshine
the afternoon winds
surround her.
She is free
and the things and the people
of the past,
they are that,
the past,
they are already vanishing,
they will soon be gone.
She longs for them
like her childhood playground
like when she paddled along
in a canoe on a lake
and felt the open air
and the call of the wild geese
sheer and bright and alive,
like the soft comfort
of an old blanket
that cradled her to sleep,
but those things,
those people,
they don’t belong to today.
They only belong
to those nights from long ago,
they belong
to Thursday night.

Do you think you’re the only one?

True or false?

True or false?

The only one
Nokyoung Xayasane

When you asked me
to meet you in the library,
I went.

When you asked me
to go on my knees,
I did.

When you asked me
to bend over,
I did.

I may have met you at the library.
I may have gone on my knees.
I may have bent over.

But it’s you
who’s searching
through the stacks,
it’s you
who’s on his knees,
it’s you
who’s bent over.
Is it not?

You think you have it?
Do you think that?

I imagine you
reading this now
with an expression
of quiet amusement,
always lust.

Do you think
you’re the only one
reading this
thinking these thoughts,
thinking these words
are about him?

Do you think
you are
the only one,
my only one?

Do you think that?

Okay, see you
at the library.

I’ll look for the one
on his knees,
my only one.

(25 March 2016)

Make me into something, someone you want.

Release me

Release me

Release me
Nokyoung Xayasane

My phone lights up,
and I know
it is you.
You nasty,
Where did you come from?

The things you’ve said to me
make me wet with vomit.
I will come
to you
in the hours
before the dawn
lights up the sky.

What we have,
it lives in the dark.
It lives there,
doesn’t it?

When I wake
at three in the morning
to check my phone,
I hope you are there,
waiting for me,
anticipating me.

What will you have me do
this time?
What dirty, nasty thing
will you have me do?
I will do it.
And I will like it.

Tell me
how I should
position myself.
Tell me
which way
you like me.
And I will do it.
I will like it.

When I drink too much,
I watch the men around me
watching me,
wanting me
like animals.
They graze
their bodies
against me
as I make my way
to the washroom.

They are animals,
aren’t they?
Those nasty,
filthy creatures.
Make small talk with me.
Buy me a drink.
I know what they want.
What they all want.
Those nasty,
filthy creatures.

Bind me.
Make me
into something,
you want.
It is performance.
It is
all performance.

But then
someone says
the releasing word.
And I am gone.

Set me free.
Say the releasing word.
Say it.
And I am gone.

(January 2016)