Her name, Mei-zhen, embossed in the jade pendant
that chafes the base of my throat
permits only shallow gasps to egress.
Havoc resounds with a puncturing percussion
as the cataclysm cast by glass and pans
eases screams that soon evaporate with the sweat
collecting like rain upon my baby’s brows.
A thick film enshrouds the eye
and coils into cobra’s pose
where the spine liquefies,
flesh absorbing each settling vibration.
Coffee iris, olive skin float upon supple lotus petals
where coral pinks mingle with the blood red river
leaking from her naked heart, the beats
blemishing the kitchen’s wooden floor.
Callous communism, indifferent to death;
murders and abortions, population control.
Authority embedded in eternal terracotta.
A single birth, but twice the heart;
denial of a daughter’s existence
The tip of my tongue withers beneath salty tears
dripping onto the bow of my lips.
My baby girl tucked beneath a wing
whose feathers split into open blinds—
a tattered veil unable to shadow the truth.
In ten seconds, the timer will sound.
Dumplings have been drowning on the stove
Like weeping swans with broken wings.
My quivering hands rest against the chopsticks’ edge.
An inescapable thought of them breaking apart,
just as Mei-Zhen and I.
As the wood splinters in half,
I succumb to the motions of life,
piercing the folds of skin between each rib.
A shaking thrust of desperation,
bleeding, hearing her voice.
Who knew angels sing?