By Regan Chern
Little girls,
Lotus feet,
Buried in jade,
Hang in the halls,
By a white silk braid.
Little girls,
Diet of mulberries and dew,
Put their periods in vials,
‘Son of Heaven’ says,
It’s the elixir of life.
Little girls,
From cots to marital beds,
Convert ribbons to garottes,
Aren’t strong enough,
Receive a thousand cuts.
Little girls,
Without awareness,
Are bodies that starve,
To harvest. That lie,
To be carnage.
At the mantle, an empire adjusts his knife.
Author Bio
Regan is in his final year of a BFA (Creative Writing) at QUT etc.… do you really need to know more than that? You could be reading my work instead, you know. It’s far better than any dry self-aggrandising drivel that I could’ve written for this bio.
If you’d like to contact me, email me at reganchern@gmail.com