On other things

self-portrait as a reverend father’s cigarette ash.

Ma,

what is it about the father’s prayers
that keeps you here?

in my ascension into his laughter,
I have become a tulip garden

trampled by a retreating cavalry—evening comes here

armed, and he rarely takes
out his body in body bags ma.

it is unbecoming how I have
rested solemnly in a silver tray

as if gathered to be served
as goat milk to infants after baptism.

ma, I think that I must become
the plurality of your varied intentions—

to be, ma, to just follow the air
as soon as curtains are left

unfurled. I have rehearsed
how to be free ma;

it is all I want to be.

Younglan Talyoung