Though my heart is a dinosaur And you but a cold meteor,Fly as you will to my atmosphereI’ll return in my own way Perhaps as poultry,Perhaps a gallon of diesel,Some polished paperweight Or mixed in the concrete NakIn a temple for a thousand soulsWho will come back many times Because they couldn’t let go,Without regret.
when i picture you, you are 52. lips deep, bright plum skin patted smooth by powder jet black hair shaped by pink cushion curlers the night before. you are decorated in your finest gold. necklace. rings. earrings. sinh, matching hand sewn top, after your shifts at the dealership the cleaning lady, now, ready for the party. you dress me, cure a high bun on my head, the same that you lift once set, and exclaim with joy: “good ga-lirl” i wonder if you’d still consider me good? i’m not always polite don’t bow as you did to others. service, that’s what they call it. i don’t go to temple. don’t offer alms, or truck kow to the sick, or for boun at Wat Lao, Wat Thai, Wat Khmer. you used to visit them all, every week. only you. everyone loved your smile. a diplomat’s for sure. laughing from the gut. you were a saint. didn’t discriminate for souls, only for those that took, and even then, you might have bent. — i wonder how would you like hearing your …
