Weekend of a Dominatrix 

Today in the mail: quirts. Bullwhips and a five-tail 
flogger. Braided and stained black from the tanner. 

I clean each of my skirts with warm water, the usual 
talcum powder. Today, a comment on my latest picture: 

This is how it should be. European slaves, Asian masters. 
The man facing away, bent over. Of course, I remember him. 

He had that look- the usual shimmer of the first time 
a man is not in power. The tingle of the unreal. 

The erection fast and feral. I wish I could say each crack 
of my whip chips away at history's feet, weakening, 

toppling. How thrilling that would be. Alas, I wield 
my whip on people, not systems. In lieu of war, 

I rest. I store my shined leather. Tomorrow 
I will again retrieve the tools I need for work. 



Mark-Making 

The human need to make marks is ancient, 
I think as I carefully write S U P in the snow. 

I always wanted to learn how to pee in a circle. 
When I was twenty I crossed streams with a friend 

because people thought it was impossible for a girl. 
A thrill to trace, to mark, to leave scent. To see 

yourself in the world for a moment. I adore recipes 
that require a thumbprint, a little divot for jam. 

When I get up from my seat, an imprint of me 
remains in the sand. Our made marks fade. 

Snow melts. Someone eats the last cookie 
late at night. The tide recedes to reveal 

a shining blank canvas. Why do we mark 
and mark again what the passage of time will erase? 

Why do anything on this blob of rock 
in the meaningless vacuum of space?

Stephanie Niu is a poet from Marietta, Georgia and the author of She Has Dreamt Again of Water, winner of the 2021 Diode Editions Chapbook Prize. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Copper Nickel, Waxwing, Ecotone, and the Georgia Review, as well as scientific collaborations including the 11th Annual St. Louis River Summit. She lives in New York City.