home dream

Hey.

I’m beside you on your bedside table.

In the form of a mango. Sugar free.

I hope you know: I’m from my mother’s garden.

Her first son was an Asian stalk. We forgot what its name was.

But there’s Violet doing cartwheels. Sweating.

And motherly Iris weeping – curious children stolen outside the fence.

It’s a sanctuary – the garden – a place a poet can spread their wings.

But there’s a pain in my back. A wing has fallen off.

What’s the point of reaching when you’re tethered to clovers?

I’m heading backwards now – to two snakes under the shade.

The largest one is on the roof of the garden shed,

His brother is coiled on the stone ground.

You’re supposed to use a net to catch what you’ve lost.

Their eyes are drawn to gray boards, the sun

Hitting their scales. Away from the Bleeding Hearts’ home.

“They’re guarding something,” I tell myself.

The last grains of sugar, hidden underneath.

They’re guarding what they have left.

I’m closing the gate now.

Body twitching. Body aching.

Mango ripening. Sugar leaving.

Net set. I regret.

My green brother’s name was *萬年青.

Treasure’s taken. I’m mistaken.

The school by Steele Avenue, its bells are ringing –

Now you’re breathing.

I’ve awakened, here risen.

You’re not beside me,

But my lips are sweet.

*萬年青 (pronounced: Wàn niánqīng) – By the thousands-year evergreen