Matcha

The liquid is yellow, blue,
a girl’s wedding braids. Tree-kneed, a

fly touches a spider’s make. A spider makes a sticky milk.
Koi rise flush with the surface, then descend to mill

about the black forest dandruff. A bubble is a round thing.
So we are punch-card round, the hole puncher chews. A bubble is a hole thing.

A bubble goes fishing, thin edge necking and
throbbing on fish lip. String rip,

fluorescent bell, sunken gong, ashes nosing up
our nostrils. We cooked that tea all night.

Michelle Chen is a high school poet and writer who lives for paper mail, warm zephyrs, and fried noodles, and who takes inspiration for her poetry from the events that occur in and around her home, New York City.

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