Two poems by Alison Zheng
God in the form of three midwives
vacuum the inside // add salt // crack a yolk
black stares back // a ceremony // a home
shriveling coins // strangely oblong // she's cursedtake time off // buy congee // eat preserved egg
be careful, it’s hot // parsley // and vitamin C
she bleeds // user error // she’ll short circuit
make her copper // a white wall // nettle, red raspberry,
rose, and calendula // God // in the form of three midwives
with eighty dollars // & laughing gas // they iterate
Grandma Made a Noose
Grandma made a noose
& hung it on our clothesline
sending us a message: fuck your water bill.
In that same backyard,
near the freeway entrance
where big auntie was hit by a car & failed to
report it, I sobbed while
she laughed & cut my hair
into uneven pieces & our underwear floated
near us like air dancers.
Do you think that you can
keep hings from me? I know you change the
channel when I come in.
I know what you’re doing.
You’re watching dirty television where boys &
girls touch & kiss each other.
You think about kissing boys, don’t you?
You think about touching boys, don’t you?
We shared a bedroom
where my stomach always hurt,
where I would scream but only in English.
Did you know, chrysanthemum
is used to make tea, soup, & wine?
Otherwise, they’ll pulverize it into pyrethrins,
suspend it in water or oil,
& use it to attack the nervous
systems of insects. As a child, I was delighted
by the easy deaths of ants.
I liked watching their bodies shiver
into nothing more than nondescript blurry lines.
september 15th, 2020