When the light escapes its cradle, mama
jolts awake, whiter than before.
Outside, the infancy, the infantry, spits
tobacco as all worshipping men do,
hard prayers dropping like silk to the ground.
Somehow, we are still round and delicate,
imagined as myth. Our bodies—
brightly sunlit in shadow.
I mistake ourselves for symbols when
mama shrieks inside her own skin,
listening to the concrete roads pant,
the willow trees dilating to sheets of wind,
children barking for their fathers.
She leaves the day an animal, soft.
When the curtains open their gates again
I want to lift warmth from this herd,
to find nourishment in blackened fingertips
and functionless names.
By Sophia Zhao.
