Winter 1992 • Vol. XIV No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1992 |

In My Mother’s Dream

There is no pain needling hands swollen to young ginger knots, there are no children fading into the wide lands of Ah Yo Fah or Ten Ah See (here in Fui Chang, the white- powder fellows ready to pounce) there is no square-jawed soo-woon man bruising with his passions and committing small acts of betrayal, no broken wedding plates, lizard tails sliding from condensed milkcans, no buckets and buckets of wet torn clothes to be scrubbed with hard Gor Si Li soap, centipedes slithering up damp walls, there are no rumors of Japanese soldiers advancing with gleaming hatreds and no running for refuge to leech-deep jungles, no digging for tapioca root, no tears when all that was hoarded was Banana notes for a smoky bonfire, the body does not split with pain as it evicts the unwanted dead and courses its accompanying effluents of crimson, relatives do not mock with refusals or pitiable gifts of powdered milk and bits of unwanted cloth, rats do not die in secret places to spread a vast stench or

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Scar

By C. K. Williams

There is no pain needling hands swollen to young ginger knots, there are no children fading into the wide lands of Ah Yo Fah or Ten Ah See (here in […]

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