Self-Portrait
after Chen Chen
As happiness, As the wailing tambourine
that replaced my uncle's gun, As the dancing
it does when he waves it at the man who cut him
off, As the rattle of pills in my father's
hands to slow the multiplying cells,
As me thinking something can be
holy, As a pig, As a poem that doesn't mention
the word father, or water, or drowned,
As a lie as red as a crow's mouth,
As a streetlight whose bulb never breaks,
As a mother who has a child who's allowed to be
nothing more than their age, As weeknight curfew,
As reparations, As a new car, As a down payment,
As the bay leaf inside the pot of red beans boiling
on Mardi Gras day, As a Zulu coconut, As something
so dark you have no other option but to call it
precious, As a sibling, As a rotten tooth,
As an aunt who has warmed the leftovers
of our family before sundown, As whatever's
left of my skeleton after the family pet
has sucked the sorrow from every bit of my marrow.
