Courtesy:  Vivian Hua

Courtesy: Vivian Hua

and your new stepfather are worried and
we need to hear your voice. We couldn’t find
your painted hands. Couldn’t remember
what you looked like. Remember when we were
married by the inlet? When that silver-
haired man (with the young Chinese wife) who slapped
your ass told you to take him home tonight?
Slapped his woman’s ass, brought her home? And you,
stunned by his touch, nearly vomited? I
told you he was harmless, didn’t mean to
touch you. Told you his name—Bob Bidetta—
so you could curse it. You are too sensitive
sometimes. I am calling now because you
are beautiful, like he said. And at night,
on the road, the beautiful are sometimes
lost to us. I feel lost, too. Beautiful
as I am. It might happen, like to me,
that you are lost in the arms of a man
who sees my face as the end. You are beautiful
and on the road, and we are worried and
can’t remember.


Types Of Roses


Why Are There So Many Languages In The World?
A rose among roses, a rose in a field.

Why Don't We Want Others To See Our Private Parts?
A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.

Why Is That Man Homeless?
Rosa sericea, my lacking heart, its bleeding wings.

Why Do Grown-Ups Sometimes Cry When They're Happy?
Sweet rhodomel, sweet tender baby. Your body barely formed. Your rose-flavored
cheeks. Gather your hips into your own fat hands and you will weep, too, know
it’s not joy, but the surprise of a mountain.

What Is Divorce?
A rose you must pull from the back of your throat.


The Flight Of The Ladybug

One day you will see my painted skin in flight and you
will hear me sing the folk songs of my own country

that is truthfully three countries. Or four? Like the bell I untied
from the cow’s neck, that I wear all day, my voice will ring out

Ding Dong Ding, the way

sound is made. Bells. My friends watch, wishing
if only she would let that cow be itself

but hardly act and itch the backs of their necks
where the cheap thread tags rub them away

I have a neck too and I try to keep mine blue
letting it steep beneath the water in the tub

but often I am the ladybug in red and black, not brown
and blue and yellow and with wings that flutter, inquire

saints with desire, however, I am not allowed to choose
the one whose name I relate to. I confirm I have no middle name.

No one would let a friend choose that, they say
but that sort of mind won’t let a ladybug fly.