The first night, I thought stray dogs were fucking in the streets.
\nBut after leaving the motel in the morning, I saw a pit bull
\nCircling in a small wire cage next to the coffee vending machines.<\/p>\n
White is the color of mourning, the cheeks of tree sparrows
\nIn branches on Tiananmen Square\u2019s border, the long line of tourist
\nT-shirts twisting away from the Mao Zedong Mausoleum, the lies<\/p>\n
About undercover agents eavesdropping on conversations
\nThat commonsense says happen far from where the Chairman
\nStews in formaldehyde against his dying wish. Signs in nine languages<\/p>\n
But not one mention of the intern who, when pushing embalming
\nBloat from the dead man\u2019s face into his neck, broke off a piece
\nOf his right cheek and replaced it with makeup and Vaseline.<\/p>\n
Three paragraphs on the vacuum-sealed crystal casket, and not a word
\nAbout the heart and bladder floating in mason jars in the basement.
\n\u201cIt smells like Graceland,\u201d whispers the man behind me in line<\/p>\n
As we file up the narrow stairs and exit through the gift shop.
\nMaybe we place the dead behind glass in an attempt to reflect
\nOur own images back at ourselves, on top of someone else, because<\/p>\n
We long to fall into the body of a stranger like the lost child
\nIn the woods falls asleep beneath the twisting limbs of an elm?
\nThe sale of death is like the sale of sex, like the massage parlors<\/p>\n
Across from the motel, where on the second night I learn the crowd
\nGathers in the florescent glow of the display windows to watch
\nOne dog lock its jaws into the snout of another, while the showcased<\/p>\n
Girls sit cross-legged in white boxes on the linoleum floor, slurping
\nInstant noodles from Styrofoam bowls. The death whine is heard
\nFor blocks around when it rises up from deep in the bait dog\u2019s belly.<\/p>\n
The first night, I thought stray dogs were fucking in the streets. But after leaving the motel in the morning, I saw a pit bull Circling in a small wire cage next to the coffee vending machines. White is the color of mourning, the cheeks of tree sparrows In branches on Tiananmen Square\u2019s border, the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":22,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[14],"tags":[25],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6Jypy-18K","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4386"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/22"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4386"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4386\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":10305,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4386\/revisions\/10305"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4386"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4386"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp0.vanderbilt.edu\/nashvillereview\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4386"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}