In My Mother’s Kitchen

April 18, 2014 § Leave a comment

In my Mother’s Kitchen

Speckled on the ground
like drops of blood
brown sugar, sweet and sticky,
Mother’s making cookies.
I liked to make paper dolls
from Comsopoltion.
Cutting out magazine images, pasting them together, as
she lapped up spilt milk and graham crackers.
“Jesus is coming to tea and
he will come to save our immortal soul with a sticker”.
She smiles, her teeth like rock candy, and I continue to
build a family from paper.

Mother wears diamond and pearl earrings.
Floral patterned aprons and socks on her feet.
In a blue bowl she scoops out chocolate frosting,
“take my hand and I will lead you to the secret garden,”
with gooey fingers she played, “Ode to Raggedy Anne”.
Witchy woman whirling about
all she could think of was sweet, bad for her teeth, sweet.
The kitchen was dark and cool, completely void of cookies.

Cut, cut, out the ladies and the men
as mother danced in the kitchen.
White marbles in a black bowl
rain pounding on roof tops.
the room smelt of brownies.
Mother’s crying on the floor.

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Ask Me How I’m Doing

April 18, 2014 § Leave a comment

If you ask me how I’m doing
I’d tell you
I’m sitting in my empty
apartment
drinking wine
while listening to
music
and sewing the holes
in my clothes.

Taking EQ tests and scoring
lower then
I like.
Playing IQ games
and winning
“You’re a moron”
from the internet.

Looking up Kaddish
and Allen Ginsberg
so I can understand
Kaddish by
Allen Ginsberg.

Reading the
People’s History of The United States
while wondering how to teach
The Great Gatsby
to Chinese students.

One glass of wine spilled
to the ground
over my neglected
yoga mat
another glass of wine
and an empty bottle.
I’m half dressed
or naked
depending on how you
view life.

You ask me how I’m doing
as I shut the apartment
door to catch the bus
to buy a new bottle
of wine so I can hide
from the denizens
of Zhengzhou
and all the foreigners
that somehow
call this place
home.

I watch the rain
mix with cement in soapy
bubbles from the dust
of destroyed cities as
the photos of my
recently deceased
mother stare at my empty
wine glass.
I’m coming back.

My glass waits till I return
Nothing else can get done
Nothing else will get done
There was nothing to do anyway
except to sew up the holes
in all of my black clothes.

Where Am I?

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