Ogress

by Lyn Li Che

April, and already the spectre
of wet between my thighs, the promise

of chafing. I dab myself with baby powder
and think of the soft of my mother’s arms,

how I wasn’t allowed an extra bowl of rice
after I couldn’t fit into her secondhand shirt—

my stomach spilling out the seams. Eighth grade
and I was already destined to be lonely,

growing up in a forest of perfect Chinese legs,
more perfect Chinese daughters. Years later

and I’m still thinking of the girls at swim class:
scimitars of shoulder blades, right angles

where limb met body. After Jenna scrawled ogress
across my textbook, I sucked my stomach in

until I passed out trying to fold myself
into my body, any body. Embarrassed,

I told people I had a fainting disease.
Sometimes, I hold my breath in the bath

and imagine myself beautiful—green
mottling my skin, fangs unknotting my teeth.

I touch my brutish face in the mirror:
all of it aching, heavy. All of it me.

 LYN LI CHE is originally from Malaysia. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in Crazyhorse, Michigan Quarterly Review, Indiana Review, Gulf Coast, Waxwing, PANK, Tupelo Quarterly, BOAAT, River Styx, and others. A 2021 Kundiman Mentorship Lab Fellow, she currently lives in New York City where she works in tech strategy.