two things are unique to a home:
writer’s block and wetting the bed. in sleep
my adult teeth pushed each other
from my mouth like dominos. you held
me, a wrinkled fetus with long hair–
we can laugh at that. but really, you held
old jeans like a plea. my stomach bulged
from the fabric and i forgot why
we took turns apologizing.
/
whenever my sister wants to play
a board game, i say i need
to write. actually i scratch out
my hair and watch videos of celebrities
kissing in the next room. i crawl
to her bed when i’m sure she’s crawled
to yours. in a false dawn you nestled
me to your stomach, so i feign deafness
as you open the curtains. 五分钟走1, you
snap. in haste, i paw everything
out of my underwear drawer–
/
i never wrangled our knocker to choke
your screaming. instead i sprawled
on the porch, winced at how even wood
whined under me. the time you waste
in driving me has dribbled
down my chin, reaching for taste. mom
we whittle this house
to a pyre. tonight
my mouth has dried raw and i’m sorry
i taunted you for this:
we’ve locked our keys in the new house.
your jeans in my closet are moving.
- Wǔ fēn zhōng zǒu – “we leave in five minutes.” ↩
Ziyi Yan is a contributing writer and poetry section head for the Nassau Weekly.