sorry, Mom

November 12, 2017

I stare at the lukewarm soy you brought home after work
for my birthday,
and swirl it around with a wooden chopstick.
My angry eyes move up
to find yours, apologetic,
across the dinner table,
knowing that I hate Chinese food,
as you attempt to lighten the mood
and ask me about school today.
Without a response,
you stand to dim the lights-
to conceal us:
the sun hides earlier this winter night-
From gunshots you say-
followed by
people are hungry-
implying for blood-
I say that maybe we should throw them the takeout
we'll be reheating over the next week.
If I knew it was you-
that they'd drag you outside our dim lit window
from me-
I would rewrite my fortune cookie-
promising myself oceans of over-salted condiments in oyster pails;
after dipping my finger and
I miss you
on the walls,
I will guzzle all of it
until I am left drowning-
dying in its puddles-
to show
I really did love
seeing you across the table.

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