Everything

(for my grandmother's diary) You left behind a book of your most precious memories some thoughts you held, written down like this poem, I'm reflecting upon. I flip each page like I’ve uncovered an ancient text at an archaeological dig. These symbols had meaning. What did they want to say? I touch them as if I could feel your hand moving across the paper that I might understand these scribbles in pen. I see my mom. I see me. even my father written in between familiar to me, bu

A clownfish survives in the arms of an anemone: its poison is protection, a ritual of sting and shelter What is it, if not the push and pull of love of an Asian family a bond so deep it suffers inside the sea When my partner says, “Just tell your mom how you feel,” I try. I really try. But the words stick in my throat Stinging me like I’ve swallowed an anemone All that comes out is: “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.” So I hide the little white pills And the pain with the fears I ma

How much would you ask to be paid for a job where you never sleep —well, barely — and must be ready to entertain, cook (acceptable meals only), rotate laundry twenty-four seven, and keep the office —I mean, the home — clean and tidy? Would you do it for free? For payment in giggles, half-chewed kisses, and just to keep it interesting, the occasional full-body scream in a grocery store, or a tantrum about toast cut the wrong way? You need to be so wide a blanket octopus, stret