there is a song again
because I am trying to hide
between two conflicting notes
it is loud and the sun is hot
like what used to be called home
in time, I will regret the way my hand
trembled perhaps shook. sometimes I mistake the keyboard
for the plucking of guitar strings
and blame my father because he is dying
the unsteadiness of my desire is what
blurred the outline of our house
the one before the one that was painted
yellow for hoping, the lines that I tried
to section and beg into shape
using small words with hard sounds
guitar plucks
keyboard
. . . . some people want to die
. . . . so they can be free
fingers invisible like the wind warm
my arms holding in the air
. . . . . . . wilting
. . . . . . . writing
. . . . . . . etching
. . . . . . . carving
. . . . . . . a word shaped anger
to be a punctuation
for once
of my own making
. . . . *
my mother smiles across the table
and I turn up the music louder
and there is that point
where love is replaced by the silence
of the drowning of need
and that point loud enough to mishear the words
for a second singing
. . . . so i want to die so they can be free
. . . . is that right because it feels right
the making of this space between us
the width of a brown wooden table
into my place of unfocus
. . . . . unravel
. . . . . . unveil
. . . . . . . unwant
. . . . . . . unwanting
not to remember
not to honor
not to hold the weight of skin in prayer
in offering
in sacrifice
. . . . *
this is the outline of my house faded
this is the outline of daughter aging in space
this is the giving up of trying to save us
this the horizon and the summer that’s coming
this:mother as fable of a woman in process
this:father as the story of the thief of voices
this:brother as a blueprint of a column at the square this:death as freedom
. . . . (is it what if i die so they can be free?)
this:memory as erasure
this:portrait of a family as lines that once existed
this:poet as the note that was reached before the loss of hearing
Photo Credit: Janice Lee
