Amber Beacon Tower
By Tiffany Wu
I have never seen rats in this city.
this city has never seen me kiss a boy.
two minutes before ten-thirty,
he is at the cashier, paying for
my favorite soju. the curfew protects from
unrest: liquor, heat, skin,
blood, an island brimming over. I am too infatuated with the boy
leading me up the roof, where he begs
to differ: this island is
anything but sterile, gesturing around us,
skyscrapers breathing
light, built by
other bodies. dark waters in the
distance. our island’s favorite ghost is a
tower by the sea. men are afraid of the
woman in white stalking the shores,
shells uncracked and gleaming under her feet.
what haunts me instead:
they had only been dating for two days
when he took her there at night.
when the men arrived with their knives.
I am terrified of the girl who followed a stranger
up a tower, terrified of
how she must have only wanted
what I want now:
to kiss a boy someplace high, and
to have the whole city
see it. it is
quiet when he touches me
clean, when I taste peach after.
quiet when he remembers to
fling the emptied bottle into the bin before we
leave. a rat darts past. I am so familiar with
quiet small creatures
scurrying away.