after K Ming Chang
Late June, during the spider lily harvest,
Meng Po sutures shut my skin
as soup marbles under. A broth that weathers
me a body for the breaking.
By now, my reflection has migrated anywhere
but home. Glory, glory to our ghosts
hums Meng Po, feeds me bird seeds while
I stare at the red river, make out
the last traceable lilt of light. Where a face
should stare back. Heartbroken.
I have broken the same body so many
lives over, touched myself a legacy
of scar tissue & lightning. Even now
I sand my eyes with rainwater
& let the scales fall, the glow of the bridge
lassoing me forward.
Hyacinth, like a buildable blush
makes a vase of my throat.
I reach into my voice, its bouquet
miscarrying again & again, roots
blood-starved for something
that will mean I can love
what I will become without ever knowing
what. I have the Cantonese for flower
but not arrangement—though that
can be arranged in the next life,
says Meng Po, my heart already
breaking in its new body.
