The Mulberry Eaters

Kirstin Wu Latimer

when you move the almond-eyed,

fish-slick body of the brush

across paper – thin as risen bone – you must

be sure to remember. all your past lives

are coming back for you. gathering

on amah’s doorstep, too polite or full

of fear.

the year disappears & it is july

for a whole month. mama says

drink enough water. says don’t

go near bodies of water. so i

move only in the tomb of the night,

avoid all bodies

of water.

walk through every swollen mouth

empty space that carried me once.

erase the air i moved, down to the dust,

the rust & red. unpick every outline

i birthed just to hear the screams.

it takes a shedding of my skin, now, again,

again

again

again

expansions into fresh discomfort. often

i imagine the smell of mulberries

staining every lost & wandering thing,

鬼 gwei, into being.

& i chew endlessly the green living

of my history. every vein a skein

of fresh-molten silk, glowing &

blood-sweet. going back & back

& back this crimson line of women.

every pulsing hair-strand some wingless

thing that knows flight only by its

free & human name

hope. longing:

a recipe for survival we pass down,

body to body in the womb. be-longing.

an entirely different vat of boiling

silkworms.

each instar: a new thing born

with the moon. i cocoon, wrap

my old & tired away from the sun,

soften. moult. melt into spaces

just to lose them. wander the land

empty & naked as a dream.

carrying only the gold of my skin,

the flightless weight of all this losing:

blood-silk, hope.