WordTapestry

epitaph to lost times hear the smiles in the applause, passed from hand to hand, but no one can conjure  the mothball fragrance of amber afternoons  with  lǎolao ¹ ,  our palms singing to the rhythm of patty-cake-- the edges of memory like so many  photo corners curling out of reach. the air conditioner  shuddered-- my thighs dimpling indignantly,  sore from sitting  on toddler-sized footstools, mugs of  suān jiǎo z hī ² sweating by our feet. tasting salt on my lips I watched your wrinkles blossom like flowers by the river-- so give me an encore, a standing ovation, bring me back to our tempo, your steady hands keeping us in time. ___________________ ¹ maternal grandmother ² tamarind juice

carpe diem two screens like glasses framing the desk,  glow-in-the-dark sparklers,  a fourth of july mess. fireworks in my eyes,  anemic papers hugging my skin, all of us striped over in careful red pen-- pressed thinly as pursed lips christening us wrong, wrong,  wrong. blue post-its,  bitter reminders coating my throat  like mother's  herbal medicine-- did you  check  yourself today? there are no stars left to wish on.  why do you cry? i don't want  to look anymore.

xoxo hey you, who leans forward,  on the seat's edge-- wavering,  a sparrow  poised to take flight.  tell me,  who taught you  how to love?  with your eyelids  fluttering-- camera shutters for another's gaze.  your lips pursed,  mouthing  the ghosts of all  you cannot say. fingers searching in your pockets,  finding none  of the promised  solace-- and yet  you smile,  dimples biting holes  into your  painted cheeks.

where u at?? twelve minutes past,  I click my tongue  tock-tock-tock to the tempo  of feet passing by.  faces blur  and voices mellow,  like so many bubbles fizzling away. I'll press this  day-old soda  to my stubborn lips,  leaving a swallow if only to spite you. twenty minutes by,  with my  blood sugar spiking,  I line dance  with the curb,  hands full  and brow tight. your iced coffee,  caramel foam no ice,  bleeds through  the papery napkin,  licking my hand. my green tea  in the other,  gone bitter  because I realized too late to mix the honey before drinking-- lapped up  all that sweetness  before learning to miss its taste. twenty-five minutes,  perhaps I should go home-- put on a show, drink your coffee too.  have more self-respect and ghost you for good,  because  all those lost minutes-- now I'm through.  or maybe you've died,  t...

in ma's fix-it drawer:  little buttons like irises  hidden beneath furrowed lids.  needles of every size to stitch us through thick and thin;  stopping our guts  from spilling,  red and steaming  onto the kitchen floor.  noodles of thread to mend the tablecloth-- stained with fish sauce,  torn by rough fingers. rubber bands  and scotch tape rolls,  green twist ties  like little weeds uprooted-- to bring us together,  a clumsy diorama we hold dear.  ma's fix-it drawer  knits patchwork clothes and red-rimmed eyes, her deft fingers  knotting around us.  today she is happy  and the steam  from the crockpot kisses our faces, so we hold our smiles.  but between the  grumbling stomachs,  and jaws glued tight with rice cake,  words slip through the gaps of our teeth.