like a deck of cards
when did having change to dying
the mother in a child’s
drawing is always smiling but why are
her eyes always
two large holes if you must have an
answer ask the
body it is the only thing that aspires
toward failure
SOME DAYS BARBIE CHANG
Some days Barbie Chang wants to
hang up her Asian boots
and root for the Circle she wakes up
not proud to be what
she is in a sea of water who gets to
decide which section
of water eats the ship it’s always the
white water that
devours first there are towers of people
working in America
people all aiming for emeritus she can’t
figure out how to open
the door of the tower someone keeps
lowering her down to
the roof but doesn’t give her a rule book
her mother gave her the
wrong rouge a ruler with no lines still
Barbie Chang doesn’t
want to appear rude so she waits on the
roof of Paul Muldoon’s
building she wonders if she is standing on
Paul Muldoon’s head how
she wishes to win the Guggenheim like
Paul Muldoon to doom
others like Paul Muldoon to write
rejection letters sending
them out the New Yorker windows
sometimes in the winter
the letters take the snow down like
dumbwaiters
BARBIE CHANG SHOULD HAVE SEEN
Barbie Chang should have seen
the signs should
have noticed the signs in the street
that were backward
that were in a different language
should have noticed
the people hiding behind trees in front
of her mother’s house
her mother catching her breath after
a shower little pieces
of death rubbed off by the towel
for two years her car
never moved then her body hardly
moved death is
fragmented is not a noun but a series
of verbs its movements
nearly invisible Barbie Chang visited each
day with her wagon of
food guns ready to shoot the dragons
under the bed to shoot
the dementia out of her father’s head
she should have seen
the signs but was busy tending to her
children busy sleeping with
both eyes closed she was tired of her
mother tired of her
anger toward her father tired of her
father’s stunned weather
his errors tired of their errands tired
of her lungs and their
refusal to open the hospice notebook
said 7:14 can’t breathe
then 7:34 last breath the word death hiding
in the word breath all
along she never saw her take her
second to last breath
never saw her wait twenty seconds wait
for Barbie Chang to come
see her wait for Barbie Chang to punch
holes in her lungs
Barbie Chang couldn’t find the hole puncher
wanted to punch herself for
not singing to her for not medicating
her father for not
believing her mother about her father for
not combining the word
death with an object for thinking death has
a shape is something
containable like a cup of water for thinking
death has no sound even
snow falls in syllables why do we kill
flowers for a funeral when
there is already so much death fifty people
came to the wake where
were all the people before where was
Barbie Chang when she
took one more breath when she blew
out her last wrath
BARBIE CHANG IS DONE
Barbie Chang is done worshipping the
Circle is done shopping
for a matching purple dress she is
complete with three
plates and doesn’t need more she now
knows there is darkness
behind darkness she decides to form
her own Circle not to
irk the Circle but to create something
new to build a new system
out of sticks a new road out of clay
instead of complain
planes keep falling from the sky even
the planes need someone
to give them direction to point them down
the bodies are in little
pieces on the ground the little pieces
have no more relation to
each other no one is weeping because
of the smells she bends
down and picks up small pieces of
people puzzle sized
pieces tries to put the different colors
together a million piece
puzzle of the world’s troubles that she
must leave on the
table for her daughters to put back
together outside a box
of staples loose on the driveway even the
earth is coming undone
BARBIE CHANG POKES THROUGH
Barbie Chang pokes through her
mother’s purse
the little brown hearse of lipstick and
blush her mother would
have let her go through her purse
because she pursued
her mother’s dreams her mother’s last
call on her last cellphone
on June 19 what was Barbie Chang
doing on June 19 she
was thinking about the moon she hasn’t
looked at for 91 months
and how the moon was a medal she
wanted around her neck
she was probably thinking about the
Circle of women at
school or circling and striking words
shifting points of view
thinking about how an acorn with its
small hat to cover it is
small images of her
mother that come and hover and leave
whenever they please
little hummingbirds of death such as how
her mother wanted
a Sprite but couldn’t remember the name
for it how her eyes looked
slightly crossed the day before she died
how she could only
breathe through her abdomen that
went up and down
like the machine the body isn’t how
her stillness was
deafening how she was warm for
so long after
HOW ALONE BARBIE CHANG’S MOTHER
How alone Barbie Chang’s mother
must have felt doing
nothing but dying her mother actually
stopped dyeing her hair
in January stopped being an actuary
for her money she
must have known her time was limited
did the diseased birch
tree know they were going to cut it down
how quickly the air
around it filled in the space it does no
good to know a mother’s
face who would have known that a
mother’s face could
be erased too at some point we are all
eliminated from this
earth a
t some point most of us give birth
at some point we lose
a mother at some point we are all
disappointments who
can’t possibly care for others when
our mothers die we
are all lost and there are no words for
it some want to
name us as grieving others wrongly
name us heroes
IV
DEAR P.
There will be a circle of girls there will be
many circles of girls who turn into circles of
women there will be many parties many grills with
corn and meat losing its red center there will
also be a circle of crows who circle the circle of
boars who circle the circle of grass work
their way into its center there will be a circle
of gnats who circle the dirty boars because
there are awards for grouping easier than
absence easier than working against easier than
separating water with curtains good things are
often in pieces are backing away from
doorways are alone the heart is alone in
our bodies because it must be to love
DEAR P.
Let her let them collect others let them hurl depth
over the balcony in the meantime it’s not about
purpose but about the person buy stackables and
store your selves in them let everyone in though
don’t pull the curtains closed or snap the buttons shut
the girls might try to come in might try to throw
you out woe you the boys might lure you out
please don’t kowtow to them the wars aren’t
real there are three ways to still everyone
with love don’t eat the meat of your enemies
because it tastes just like your tongue don’t meet
them in the middle just jump in the puddle
together and fill in the white space the wind is
fine with being homeless but we are not the wind
DEAR P.
you many will brother you some of these
loves will bother you some will leave you
one might haunt you hunt you in your
sleep make you weep the tearless kind of
weep the kind of weep that drowns your
organs slowly there are little oars in your body
little boats grab on to them and row and row
someone will tell you no but you won’t know
he is right until you have already wrung your
own heart dry your hands dripping knives until
you have already reached your hands into his
body and put them through his heart love is
the only thing that is not an argument
DEAR P.
If you are like me and can only see the horizon
that is unreachable don’t know that want sheds and
grows and sheds and grows please don’t
keep trying the outline is fine find a closer
aisle pull the cans and boxes from the shelves so
you can eat so you can feed on likeness anything
is possible but the possible isn’t always foldable
it’s okay to not spin the diamond that begs for your
finger it’s okay to reach behind you allow your clothes
to snag onto air to hide in time to exist in
the stars to believe that awards signify nothing it is
okay to only watch the birds in the ficus tree clutter the
branches each season leave their waste and let
your hands be hands and the wings be wings
DEAR P.
Please forage please do not achieve please
stay mischievous even if others are deviously
perfect your previous hair color will always be black
black isn’t absence black shouldn’t be auctioned
black has options even if you have to hack something
rip something lengthwise your soul isn’t a
flagpole it can lift up into the sky and wave
become frayed you too can have but make
sure you actually want otherwise stay home
and make your own wontons they won’t get
stuck to your tonsils someday someone will seal you
out but someday someone will also sing to you
from a windowsill and steal you from me
because you were never only mine
DEAR P.
One night the power in your house will
disappear apparitions will appear your
appetite will disappear you will be left with
only dark and gray ghosts who know you
more than anyone do not light a candle or find
a flashlight do not try to shape the pain do
not find any lights that cut darkness into pieces
let night pile up there is peace in darkness there are
no loudspeakers in darkness all tears are equal in
darkness underneath the coat of blinding night
is truth and the difference between truth and
everything else is that you can see everything else
don’t worry everything you reluctantly give me
you will eventually get back
DEAR P.
Now that my heart is nailed onto the wall an open
pumping splashing republic I can imagine its last leaden
beat I can see your arms reaching for its slab as
it drains until only a gray eyed god glares down on you
listen the world will stand up will crawl will hire
you will ignore you when you grow unpin the heart rinse
it put it in a jar by the light punch holes in the lid walk
outside the wind will try to welt you wilt you weld
you do not let it italicize you make you write
complete sentences turn around open your
mouth the wind will fill you up with my words
until you stretch until you wrest until you recognize
yourself until you see that every woman
begins and ends with another woman