They Call Me Madame Butterfly

By Wendy Chen

My skin is as thin
as rice paper
stretched across a frame.

My lips as red
as a temple door.

I am not like other women.

I won't walk,
won't talk
without you.

I'll wait
in a field of snow,
listening for the click
of your heels on ice,
for your black leather shoes.

When your hands
touch my cheeks—

I'll blossom
like a cherry tree.

Mouthless

flower
in the snow,

I'll raise my head.

I'll fix my eyes on you.

Won't you recognize me?
You know you do.

You were the one
wearing my voice,
making incisions
inside me.

How blank the interior!
How perfectly smooth.
Pale as the lining of a clam.

But you grow tired
of inhabiting me: retreat,
retreat from my blank
lacquered shell.

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