legacy left a stain on every shirt i ever borrowed
everything i ever gave came with a smell of loving
of keepsakes and keeping safe

I walk on the remains of my ancestors, down twisted and treacherous paths. I carry the scars of generations slung over one shoulder, pulling me off balance, and on the other I bear the silence of a thousand words unsaid.

In the Early Summer,
I drink sticky gold sunshine and nibble velvet pink roses
and breathe the air of Saturday mornings:
Saturday mornings when I wake up to a tangle of sheets
clock hands at 7:30
window draped in sleeves of sun and the brush of a breeze

A blooming handful of violet flowers,
The beautiful journey of being loved and lost.
A body, fragile and breakable, yet as light and magnificent as a blossomed plant.
Weeping and eroding as time progresses to the end, 

I. The sun dipped below the horizon; I clutched my grandma’s hand a bit tighter. She had turned sixty-seven that day, I was a mere ten. We strolled through the old neighbourhood, the streets lined with trees bearing shiuli flowers, their fragrant aroma hanging in the air.

It was mid-November, 1983 when James first got sick. It started with a dry cough and exhaustion; in all ten years that Edward had been with him, the occasional affliction was nothing out of the ordinary.

My most vivid recollections of China are filled with fond memories and blissful experiences. The smell of smoke and frying foods wafts through the air, and at night the streets are a disorienting mess of flashing billboards and street lights.

sister I am trapped, my body weighted 
by morning, when I woke
birds were calling till my heart stammered 
this time gives meaning to suspended

Prologue:

The world is large, but so am I.

An ocean of confused compassion

rolls through my veins,

and I balance boulders 

on unmanicured fingertips. 

I wish I had trauma that I could spin into a story, 

a story that would grip your thoughts tighter than leather binding, 

Something I could rip to shreds, over-analyze in the margins, 

the vents in my grandmother's old car blow

cigarette smoke at my left knuckles

and right forearm.

there's something so cold about crawling back to the house and home

where Caroline kicked me out for borrowing her water bottle

My brother’s just moved into college!

Well, not entirely- there’s still his coffee machine and a box of granola bars, but we’re driving those to him today.

claymation in six scenes.

1.

Margaret finds out she is made of clay when she presses into the crook of her elbow and pulls the flesh right off.

2.

The blood drips down my thighs in fighting harmonies.

Disagreeing on the weight in which to debilitate me, its desire to hurt me.

My body clenches, a shooting pain transforms me.

Demanding to immobilize me.

i have my father’s temper, my father’s eyes.

i keep my bloody birthrights in a clear glass jar.

all the things i’ve laid claim to with my mother’s fingers;

long, pale, five on each hand, like real people have.

Every Saturday, after work, I visit my grandmother at her nursing home. It’s about a half an hour drive to get there, but it’s worth the drive. Grandma G isn’t the normal nursing home type you’d think of: sweet, unsuspecting, a kind of elderly innocence.

i never met her

but i always knew she was there

my dad talked about her so fondly

“we used to drive

for hours listening to old cassette tapes

singing along

not knowing where we were going

but not caring”

sometimes

I can’t remember

why pink ice cream

smells of lakes

and trips to grandma’s house

I have no memory

of cherry chocolate chunk ice cream melting

in my mouth

But sometimes

I lick my fingers

just to make sure

But you need it, you said. I thought you wanted to be beautiful. I slammed my hands on the wheel of your Land Rover and pulled over to the side of the road near the big houses with green lawns and trampolines, Norfolk Way.

A ransacked village in India is where my lineage began

Women.

Women, I will

And

Can never, ever know.

Tribulations my western brain

Cannot comprehend.

They made me.

I have the blood of

Hundreds

From the moment a screaming woman thrusts us into the world,

Soft, bloody heads first.

We begin to deteriorate.

For some, that occurs at a faster pace than others.

Pouring all of the liquor you can find in the house down the drain is the most fun the daughter of an alcoholic can have without attending therapy. Isn’t that how the saying goes?

who cares about that umbilical cord when it doesn’t stop you from hurting me

you say I’m part of you but I feel you don’t love every part of me

let’s go through my childhood book of memories

earliest one my neck falling backwards

Fighting never ends…

Words back and forth…

What will come next?

Why do I put up with it at all?

What to do?

Why try anymore?

What is the point of things?

What should I do to fix things?

I need help…

He woke up shivering, the cold hard floor having been his bed for the night. His brain throbbed as he pushed himself up, making it hard to remember what last happened. He held his head in his hands as he thought it over until an eerie sob bounced off the walls.

“A breath, a sigh, she closes her eyes,

hearing the forest saunas around her,

yonder the sum set the sky on fire,

burning, burning,

the stars/lew higher...”

I’m a new york kid. there i was born and raised. outside on the block that’s where i spent most of my days, but now my vision’s in a haze. my mom said, what i’m going through is just a phase, but i know now that’s not the case.

“Davidson! That tree is flying! It’s going to crash into your house,” Gary warned me. “You’re right, Mr. Franklin, and here, it’s coming in for a landing,” I replied with calm reserve.

Inside the window, a family you’ll see

A mother, a father, brothers, and

dogs as earsplitting as can be

But this family is the best

Superior to all the rest

Because this family has a bond

We’re all rather fond of