Self-portrait as a daydream of a wuxia series

KJ Li

This once, let me forfeit Helen, Adonis,
the legions of classic beauties
cast in marble and praise. I want to whet

my mouth against a lusher history: the jut
of the scorned prince’s jaw in this warm, crafted light
could slice any man as cleanly as Paris’s arrow

spitting Achilles straight into the ferryman’s
eager mouth. Here the warrior-princess takes to knee
before the throne and I fantasy myself

the bright silk gilding her graceful sleeve, falling
open to reveal the inevitable wound, I the viper
glittering at the empress’s throat, fanging air

or heir. I practice yearning like a blade
earns its blood, tongue sharpening against
itself until my mouth drips red fortune. It could

happen like this: I the sweet perfume jeweling
the princess’s sword-strong wrists, raising them
through the dark to that familiar

luminous face, drawing out the confession
that cannot be re-sheathed. And they will come
through to the other side changed, having

needed this, not knowing they will spend
the rest of their unwritten mortal lives
chasing after this brief animation,

not knowing the name for such
hunger, not knowing that certain beauty
strikes only once.