Simulacra

Ching-In Chen
It's not that the rains have rolled back
up to the ceiling. It's not that the frost has stopped 
flirting with the dunegrass. My mother's eyes
are glass: she writes me what she sees there.  

Duck waddling highway, sideways
raccoon pus, mutant
sunflower with a yen for fertilizer.

She has no time for wordshit.  
Her older sister tells me my mother
doesn't understand much of poetry. Why
am I resistant?
	
The camera's already been here.

Copyright © 2010 by Ching-In Chen. Used with permission of the author.

Copyright © 2010 by Ching-In Chen. Used with permission of the author.

Ching-In Chen

by this poet

poem

after Mendi Obadike

When I was a white girl, I had no mother.

I drank whiskey, lived in a house with no walls.

Girls visited and marveled at my room to breathe.
When it was sunny, they let down their hair, drank fresh orange juice.

We