More “Threads”

 I have no idea why the fonts are all wonky. It’s not on purpose.


The Virgin Suicide


My mother mixes the soft rice in the turmeric fish juices, yellow and soppy

she mashes it together with her fingers and forms little drippy balls of rice

which she then arranges cannonball-like on the green plastic plate.

I am still chewing the last rice ball, they are too big for my very small mouth.

She stuffs in the next one before I am done swallowing.

I choke on a fishbone.


eyes                           widen.

            can i go outside and play no you have to study {but i’m six}


did this happen? a beach no bigger than a courtyard

on a bamboo raft to nowhere

shining black skinned men in dirty loincloths

bottom heavy clouds gather in conspiracy

I feel this is a perfect time to challenge

life: jump. {i am six or four or eight}

green beer bottle glass water salt salt salt

my feet keep going downdowndown down

            down, they never stop.

why does someone save me.


            sprigs of leaves grow between the cracks of a dry courtyard. the flatness of the terrain is oppressive, especially with those herds of black coming across the sky. only the scent makes you want to live for a long, long time.

I am running around the empty living room

away from the mirror-embroidered cushion

it catches me and pins me to the futon, face-up

I can taste dusty cotton and magenta embroidery

I can smell the one room store it came from.

I cannot think anything.

I cannot breathe anything.



I lived in a house

where the flowers bloomed

like chinese characters

outside the window.


                        the branches snuck in, scratched my cheek

                                    while I slept they fondled my hair through

and through the bars there was rainwater

dripping lightly into the cool airy room.


I lived in a house

where the whapwhap of cotton

yards beaten against wet ground

woke me to the window

            in the gleaming morning

                        where the




flickered on the acid burning

brightly on the red cement.


I lived in a house

where autism blossomed

in pairs of awkward joints

they were all knees and elbows,

                                                those boys,

            their mother with her teeth

            and her widow’s thin white than

                        knotted about her swelling knuckles.

when they died the room was quiet

like the crazy chained to the window.


I lived in a house

where wives and daughters

with green eyes meowed at

the one daughter whose madness

            was to love

                        and be loved

            without clothes

                                    with screams

so they kept her locked away

until one day, she up and died.


I lived in a house

where the crumbling stone wall

bore peeling manifestos

of Marxist-Leninist sentiments:


                        The revolution lives on through fists

            pumping, teeth


blood trickling slowly from his head

like the steady dissolution of memory.


I lived in a house

where a woman with black plum skin

lined my white little feet

in red red ink from a green glass jar

            pulled out a bamboo mat

                                    rough and dyed

                        the fan in a lazy whir

lulling me to sleep on the floor in the depths

of a dog howling in pain or love.


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