Zhao the emperor wanted prosperity for his people in China
yet here I sit, dragging joints like origami bones, ready to bomb
Xanax and write poems for my parents, scripted like trigonometric
waves crashing on shore in rhythmic intervals, yin & yang, push and
vehemently pulling for MD and dreams of my perfect American wife
umbilically tied to life, Aren’t mixed babies so cute? Yes, but what of
the name, a question of I meant where are your parents from? Singing
songs unwritten belies truth: children can be born in complete breech
rejecting crowns for enlightenment, but I was never meant for Bodhi
quite the opposite. I’m one of billions, an individual pilgrim in Hajj
praying for the stampede to squash somebody else. I must be sick
or just human. I will soon earn my peace, so remember my will
not my stained lungs or exploding heart. Closed casket for Mom
means tears won’t fall on formaldehyde-filled cheeks. An African
lioness licks amniotic crust so her cubs can see, they strive to be Leo
killed for his golden fur, a sacrificial labor. A son counts pills to sleep,
juleps for his father. In my dreams, I can fly away from his of higher IQ,
Ivy always sounded like a vine to me, climbing, reaching for the peak, peer
horizons beyond what you’d think you could achieve, started at the pig pens
graduated PhD, married the girl who’ll read your dissertation in Chinese first
fānyì English later on. Come, honey, let’s eat sushi in the tub, our impromptu
evening of decadence, cheering champagne as victorious queens. Mazel tov!
Drink up! ¡Salud! We are proof, we don’t need jobs, just confidence. Now
curtsy! Bow! Hug your lovely ones, we finally reached the top, our apex
based on history, and we will continue to nurture abidingly
all we’ve been given, love and life abuzz.