And you said don't look
at the faces behind
the counter just look
at me. Look at me
not the moon so full
like it ate too
much. Last week a slivered
hangnail, now a belly
swollen, a pixel
darkly, drop of motor
oil in the parking lot.
In my mind there are
no cars idling
in the drive-thru,
which is to say:
I can't tell the true
source of my afflictions
in case someone's god
is listening. Childish
I know, still I
mispronounce every L,
still my lexicon piss
as poor. I chipped
front tooth and the gap
widens sliver till
the sky gags me. Think
I'm mute cause
my mom gave birth
chewing bubble
gum, legs spread thick
across consecutive fever
dreams. Aiya,
ni hui shuo hua ma—
something about pools
of bodies, seeing limbs
and flesh melt by, paralysis
becomes a bottled soft drink
dribbling over sand or
my dreams. Shuo yi ge
zai jian, ni ting jian ma?
Televisions make waking
life look breezy so
how come this takes
all of me. I'm washed
in a fluorescent glow
at Wendy's, strung out
on a religious feeling.
Drank this cola so fast
even the ocean felt
thirsty.
//
Angie Sijun Lou is from Seattle. She is a PhD student in Literature and Creative Writing at UC Santa Cruz.