Here Rests An Alien At Her Foreign Home.
The internet is shit.
The time is wrong.
No one lets me eat
what I want. Here
is a roach trying to swim
upside down. Here
is a garden full of trees
and no grass. I have forgotten
how to verse so I am filling
the house with the neighbouring
mosque. I am showing the men
the photos where
we were all very small. Here
we are sitting around
a folding table
in party hats. Here
is my brother turning eight,
wearing the same sweater
I'll wear when I turn
stuffy and stale. Here
is me clutching a fist
full of tissues, smiling with a lack
of breath. Here
is my father slouching
with a grimace, basking
in his failure to smile well. My mother
here, here, here, here, here,
here, here, here, here, here,
here, here, here, here, here,
here, here, here, here, here,
I guess everywhere,
pulling curtains between me
and the fun, guiding the knife
in my fingers over the sponge,
blowing my candles, wishing
my wishes, kissing my forehead
and leaving behind in its middle
a red hot smudge.
Full Grown Mourning
I am a full grown
in mourning. Feed me
Citrus—Lemon, Orange,
Foreign Pink Fruit.
Hydrate my lisp
with shiraz, throw my limbs
in the air towards the sun.
Chant Cheer. Chant Good.
Thank You for liking
my short black dress
here at the club
where I have decided
to start a business
of selling sweet talk
for a buck. I have much
like a visa to my name,
three mandarins,
and this short black dress
which everyone seems to love.
Yesterday at the hospital
of my dreams, I ended
up eating one of my hands.
And with the pinky left,
I wiped my many single
tears from the corner
of my many single eyes.
I love my drama. The mirrors see it.
The walls see it. The Boys see it.
Well, sorry Boys. I am too asian
for upfront affection.
I am only here at this club
to pick a fight.
Punch Punch Cry Cry
Ouch Ouch Bye Bye.
Time to clean the house.
Time to take out the trash.
Time to call Mother for the day.
Dinner is Breakfast. Lunch is dead.
I am trying to become
what the walls
have always wanted
to fled.
