ventricles

I want to eat fresh caught fish
my mother smoulders in the sai kung sun

I tore through two tea bags without a cup to brew,
my sister sits fourteen days in a hotel room

I see months in little white squares
my city croons its swan song.

I sift through stolen time, knuckle through the haze of backlined streets
my mother says not much has changed if you don’t look for trouble.

I see mass exodus and stone faced teens,
my language is the fruit of a pitted seed

I am entreating into a self punctured with small holes
my city my moor look what they have done to you

my home is resting in the arms of its owner,
lapping up cream with a jaw muzzled tight

I am not neither here nor there I am not drunk on the idea of
bisecting myself clean for consumption

betwixt the both of us, person and place:
I cannot staunch two wounds on my own.

I cannot tell a heartbreak from a home