Your lips go from sunny side to suicide in a single click. 
You’re too fast for any sniper. 
You know when to hit the ground and stay down.
When you step out, armies rise up or die by your eyes.
Your soldiers are of all ages, genders and religious denominations.
They have nothing in common but the image of you
carried in secret lockets, or burned into their third, unblinking eyes,
or tattooed into armpit and hairline and between the toes. 
If you glance at yourself when you’re kissed, the mirror plucks out its eyes, 
for no other image will ever again suffice.
You are kissed and kissed again. You are always kissed.
You wake up to a kiss and fall asleep to one. In between, kisses. 
You say your dreams in a stunned small voice 
that belongs to the other world. 
Your pauses are glacial, the age melds its continent to your breath,
your tears are the end of seasons.
Sometimes, on an escalator, if you speak to yourself 
your unheard words will make a stranger stop in grief.
Your power is sustainable and biodegradable.
Your green will outlast plastic. 
You invented electricity. The grids belong to you.
They blaze your praises, visible from rocket ship and satellite.
When you skip town, the wind on the street says your name.
Ah, it says. Kang. Sha.
No one escapes your influence. 
Once, out of my mind, I tried, but the grass barred my way.
And the stars wandered out of their pens. 
And God exhaled.
And no faith was left in the world.