By Lily Hoang
When I was ten, I drowned in the ocean. Decades have changed the curvature of my trauma from fear to repulsion. Human sweat disgusts me.
Sebastian is sleeping next to me. I transferred my sickness into him. When I touch his feverish back, I withdraw my hand because it is wet with the excretions of malady.
We watched the sun set over the Pacific Ocean on our first date. The sky was exceptional. We walked along the nude beach. Color felt tumultuous.
Ascending a cliff is less trying on the knees than its descent.
Belle is scared of the Beast, but he does not disgust her. Fear can be abated; disgust is stalwart. It stakes into our memory—and Disney gives us another perfect love story.
I allow the Pacific to break against my calves. I can’t venture further. I lack equal parts will and desire.
My friends say they’ll have me surfing before the quarter is over.
I laugh, as though something might be funny. I say, “This is the sublime. Look at it.” I sweep my arms and spin around. “All it wants to do is kill me.”
Lily Hoang is the author of five books, including A Bestiary (PEN USA Award finalist and winner of the Cleveland State University Poetry Center’s Nonfiction Contest) and Changing (recipient of a PEN Open Books Award). She teaches in the MFA program at UC San Diego.
