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by Nancy Huang

if you sliced my sister open

you’d find New York there

carved on her rib bones, burnt crest & center


among sparkling organs.

she complained of lumps forming,

gutted crystal growing under healthy skin, bruised purples dyeing smooth canvas


until: fizzling city,

while the stars popped like bubbles in the air pinprick & dotted,

jewelry box soda


& the streets turned amethyst,                                 

& lamplight turned sparkle,

& she became mineral for hair.


how the world turned & we still forgot.

her insides allocated crystals—

stone limbs, hard chest.


everyone said she had to be split in half

to be beautiful

Nancy Huang's work has been recognized by the James F. Parker Awards, the National YoungArts Foundation, Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, the Library of Congress, and the Iowa Writer's Workshop. Her debut chapbook will be out in fall 2017 (Write Bloody Press).

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