Saquino14

wu xian shen . my father threshes the thin green grass, sets it aflame.              our mother gathers              the cinders, mixes              a meal into grey. here, a dish born of a dying garden : my brother is the first to eat – he does not die immediately.                    so we follow, joking about the smoked spice, laughing until our tummies hurt: one swelling                    after the other. we huddle around the shithole, our faces wrung like rags . father leaves as we enter the kitchen                  where is he going? she sweeps the quiet shards of his anger.