after some thought I was plucked into existence, from a swirling moving pool of energetic laughter and repeated sinning due for resurrection. yes I sensed there was gnawing and aching. curling yellow nails scraping up shards of marble grass weeds and dandelion fur must have spilled out, a childhood secret underneath inches of incense ash tucked in intimately close, prayer turned to star dust and cracklings holding on in the after blue and white porcelain gasping open I remember crying the first time I watched a man drag his bare feet over hot coals, in my head I saved him from a fiery death– pulled him away truthfully I didn't have the stomach averted my gaze like a coward to mary janes covered in dirt long hours spent turning over bone broth like linens searching for fat scum & collecting dolls you didn’t get to have then seasickness was cut up and stuffed into a carcass, after echoes from a tragic Love boat, ark drifting away from the jagged teeth of a monster my parents speak about under the influence when we linger at the dinner table so long we begin to get comfortable releasing talk of homeland, lacking invocation of gentrified pearly suburban monopoly estates and colored paper money and catholic churches.
a deity must have steamed my soul in banana leaf, said yes this one will be a horse. strong gaping lungs made for smoke and asthma, foal tripping over soggy paper knees unsure of its own weight and what soil to stand on, in a wicker basket laid a fat cherub, greedy bastard soft and relenting. sheer wings propped up with sewing needles the size of rambutan spines, it heaves.
Vi Ly is a Vietnamese American writer and student, currently residing in Bellingham, Washington. She writes in all genres, but mostly poetry and loves to explore themes of food, dreams, personal mythologies, and family.
