Wife-beatered, bedroom burst with birds
and sons, my grandfather turns left on red
forever. We leave mainland for traffic or fish,
an island for snow, the hereditary list
to Away for his ghost taxi I never heard:
a quartet of poached songbird in the trunk.
In my mirror, I see the men I got drunk
off just breathing them, and tonight I wish
I took the well-trafficked kiss to market,
watched it sun and sell and darken
beside a silver moon of pomfret thanked
for flesh, for time. The fishmonger of me
walks home with a little fish a little empty,
but the next life will be landlocked, so we get
into a taxi and take somebody home
before that life surfaces: some snow, all stone
animals you cannot shoot, agree
-able species floated at the corners of yards.
We’ll ghost into a life like minor chords,
make rearview eyes at what could have flown—
as a taxi turns left on red, four songs shut
in the trunk, testing the border like a cut
so open we’ll know it forever, the words
that could have taken us home nowhere,
then brilliant, gone, fish sailing through air.
Lo Kwa Mei-en is most recently from Columbus, Ohio, where she works as a cook and a bartender and attends Ohio State University’s MFA program in creative writing. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Ninth Letter, Crazyhorse, Indiana Review, New Orleans Review, The Kenyon Review, Gulf Coast, and other journals.
Photograph Courtesy of Portable_Soul via Flickr