Chopsticks

Her name, Mei-zhen, embossed in the jade pendant that chafes the base of my throat permits only shallow gasps to egress. Havoc resounds with a puncturing percussion as the cataclysm cast by glass and pans eases screams that soon evaporate with the sweat collecting like rain upon my baby’s brows. A thick film enshrouds the eye and coils into cobra’s pose where the spine liquefies, flesh absorbing each settling vibration. Coffee iris, olive skin float upon supple lotus petals where coral pinks mingle with the blood red river leaking from her naked heart, the beats blemishing the kitchen’s wooden floor. Callous communism, indifferent to death; murders and abortions, population control. Authority embedded in eternal terracotta. A single birth, but twice the heart; denial of a daughter’s existence The tip of my tongue withers beneath salty tears dripping onto the bow of my lips. My baby girl tucked beneath a wing whose feathers split into open blinds— a tattered veil unable to shadow the truth. In ten seconds, the timer will sound. Dumplings have been drowning on the stove Like weeping swans with broken wings. My quivering hands rest against the chopsticks’ edge. An inescapable thought of them breaking apart, just as Mei-Zhen and I. As the wood splinters in half, I succumb to the motions of life, piercing the folds of skin between each rib. A shaking thrust of desperation, bleeding, hearing her voice. Who knew angels sing?