JULIE WONG

anatomy of a two-car fire on the golden gate bridge

i want you to strike gold. strip mine & pick me
clean, vulture our ribs to the same crushed cage:

crumple zones collapsed into collision, flame
splintered into amber & char. my chassis a moth,

twirling through the cavern of your light-pouring
hands, a burned bridge under your touch. burnished

steel & blazing. polaroid sun blushing the shaft
of your shoulder, glimmering copper, heatstroke

gilding my waist. your warmth a seatbelt, seagulls
soaring through slatted cables & each wing-beat

framed in glass. this, a promise: objects in mirror
are closer than they appear. solar glare gunning

my guts to gravel, your gasoline lashed around
my wrist & this, the truth: i don’t want to look away.