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.