West End Press

Although this room is small,
it is yours,
your eyes
I cannot ignore.
Here on the top floor
in this building
dialects drift from patches
of jade plant, through peanut-oiled halls.
Where do you belong,
if not here?
Your skeletal frame
attracts my rough hands,
seeking relief
in the shapes of clouds.
Never mind the others,
their superstitions
packed in cans
of dried salted fish.
I will burn incense,
bake mooncakes.
Now that you’re here,
you focus on my Chinese evergreen,
illuminating the lesions on my skin.
Will you eat, will you eat
if I feed you rice gruel
through paper straws,
these outstretched hands?

—from “Song from Dark”