"Blood, Marrow, Oolong, Ivory" is a bow. My lips are the arrows. I pour plum wine over paper and lick the pages until I am drunk on the substance. This publication is about sleeping with grief and waking up with pleasure. This publication is an orchid door. This publication is an annihilation of ritual. This publication is an altar. This publication is about when I awoke a fish and they took off my scales by the riverbed. This publication is about my mother, about my chest, about god, about power, about vulnerability. I want you to read it and I want you to taste the ingredients when they serve me fresh, hot, on a jade slab: blood, marrow, oolong, ivory.