Some days I feel more like a ghost

than a human being:  soft, untethered.  Words
I do not say curdle beneath my tongue.  Silence:

a comfortable home; body, less so.  Hair collects
in the bathtub drain, a piece of me that won’t stop

growing.  America is a land without ghosts so everything
stings of wet paint, alcohol.  I wander convenience

stores past midnight.  Scrub dishes as soon as I
dirty them.  Save my wisdom teeth, mined from fleshy

gums, wake unfluid and sticky-eyed.  Each day round
and crisp as a cold apple.  Beside my limbs, late nights,

I lie and look at the moon.  An eyelash.  Its light
slats in between the blinds, silver, wet, identical.

* “America is a land without ghosts.” —Fei Xiaotong, Chinese sociologist, 1944


Oriana Tang grew up in New Jersey. Her work appears in PANK, The Sierra Nevada Review, Winter Tangerine Review, Killing the Angel, and The Adroit Journal, where she is currently a prose reader. She is a sophomore at Yale University.