花: 母亲 • flower: mother

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PUER BEFORE BEDTIME
Last night my mother visited me to say she’s been in China all this time. She’s been staying in a straw hut by the Nanping River, barefoot—selling scallion pancakes to villagers who don’t question the deep moans by ghosts who hover over houses. I don’t speak the language of the dead, fluently. At times I hear stars hiss in consonants and kiss gray vowels out of me when I walk at night and I want to have everything and nothing at the same time. I don’t believe her when she says the Buddha has been asking about me. I don’t believe in gold or god or chaplains that smell of baby cologne and talcum powder. I do believe in the fish, the door lock, the sink that breathes heavy water—a hot cup of sea horse.
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