shuffling their feet toward the family, idling by / the lip of a suddenly crowded room
June 1, 2021
| {The monks arrived | at the ICU} | ||||
| shuffling their feet toward | the family, idling by | ||||
| the lip of | a suddenly crowded room | ||||
| Naraka – | it was muted except for | ||||
| their umber speakerbox | the ventilator | ||||
| chanting | keeping the father’s lungs from decaying | ||||
| into leaf litter | before morning | ||||
| The monks stood | in the quiet | ||||
| oms ringing out | the family took turns | ||||
| inviting the father | to imagine the walls | ||||
| now part of the caves | were stretching | ||||
| so he could breathe | and the procession | ||||
| could begin |
Before We Marry
I need to tell you about my father.
Handsome rascal when young and thin
jutted cheekbones that flattened
his eyes so he couldn’t see
the horizon
Who crooned Hong Kong love songs
though my sister begged him to stop
though I loved his gentle tune
though I waited and waited to know who
he was carrying it for
Who never took a photo in the 90s
without a Marlboro in one hand
ashtray in the other
to collect the residue on
my shoulders
Who cracked open crab shells
slurped the broth empty
held the carapace out for
someone to give him more
someone to keep him fed
Whose graying hair turned onyx when
my mother draped saran wrap over bare
brown- and red-hued shoulders
lacquered his scalp with
Bigen Hair Dye – Oriental Black 59
Who the first time I saw cry was in
the last year of his life, terrified of the
moment he would kneel before his long-gone
mother and sister and brother
tears splitting on the edges of those cheekbones
Whose birthday
we never knew
until my mother wrote it down
on his photo by the
temple shrine
I want to tell you about my father.
His eyes, his cheeks, his smoke, heavy
heavy hands I hold you with. Why do I
begin stories I don’t know
how to end.
