dandelion boy, mouth full of red smoke, 
stringing up teeth into rows, into an
army, into this unknowable structure
of fog and silence, hung across window
frames and eyes and all the openings
of your chest. 

dandelion boy, do you fear it? the sweet
honeyed milk of freedom. what does your
mouth taste of? the dust of an abandoned
house, haunted. you wear your heart
like a fist, clutched tight; your eyes
a cliff edge, wide open. 

oh dandelion boy, rid yourself of your
seed fluffs; can't you see? your brothers
have reclaimed the concrete, the holy
light; the great bitter wind is yours for
taking. seize it by the throat and claim it
as one wears a name.   

don't forget dandelion boy, your mouth
is a weapon: use it.

LYSANDER WONG is a trans poet from Hong Kong. He dabbles in art and photography, enjoys getting lost in cities, and drinks too much water.