Pinnochia from Pleasure Island

From The Yellow Issue

Taraneh Mosadegh

Now I think of what I’d die to forget. Now I forget.
­Where did I grow up, get out—was I as rich as a golden
yolk waiting to crack in the hay? Where I come from
­would I go back? If yes, reload me. And if yes, accident,
but nobody can brave enough to see we’re just buck
­shot spat from out the mouth of a motherland. So, bang,

wet me like a tooth with a wicked root. We’re target
­-far from being dear for long. Now you make me dress
the wound I turned myself into when I bit into two.
­Now you might get up inside it and show me the whip
-stitch anew, or finger-test my tourniquet, bandwidth
­on top of me, make me shake like a head. Now you like

to know my real name, what to say yet louder when
­on the outside for good. What’s not good you can’t get
out of a corset fast enough, here, and I came unlaced
­fast-paced. My body’s a dress (cut from a fond hell I tore
off the tongue of the real), a first name for my heart.
­Now the word for intake is that for swallow, smallest

­beast licking its way down the sky once like lightning.
Because here, somebody can open their mouth wider
­yet. My heart is breaking to know how I can still break,
because here, somebody must open my mouth, wide
­beast licking its way down the sky once, like lightning.

Now the word for intake is that for swallow (smallest
­of the tongues of what’s real), a first name for my heart,
fast-paced. My body’s a dress. Cut from fond hell, I tore
­out of the corset fast. Enough, here, and I come unlaced
on the outside for good, not what’s good. You don’t get
­to know my real name, what to say and louder yet when
on top of me, making me shake like a head. You’re like
­a new stitch, my finger-tested tourniquet, its bandwidth.
Now you might get up inside it. So show me the whip,
­the wound I turn myself in to when I bite into two, too
far from being dear. So long. Now you make me dress,
­whet me like a tooth with a wicked root. I am target

shot, spat out from the mouth of a mother. So, bang,
­but nobody can be brave enough to see I’m just bucked.
Would I go back? If yes, reload me. If yes, accident,
­yolk waiting to crack in the hay. Where I come from,
where did I get out? Was I richly young and golden?
­Now, I think of what I’d die to forget. Now I forget.