My Arms
My arms have never been
strong enough,
to carry a child,
or a wok full of stir-fry,
like a good wife,
a good mother.
Sometimes they droop like spaghetti,
and can't even muster the strength
to give anyone a hug.
Though weary at times,
my arms are also starstruck,
and on nights like this,
when I gaze up at the sky,
I find them reaching out to you,
across galaxies.
My Father's Hands
My father's hands,
both erudite and rough,
birthed stories of hardships
with strokes of black ink
from a felt-tip pen,
loaded and unloaded
boxes of merchandise
for our family store,
turned the steering wheel
of a station wagon,
held a beef and rice bowl
from Yoshinoya,
but never a feline,
nor an incense
for a prayer to Buddha,
nor my mother's hand,
not after they lost their love
for one another,
not after I was born,
my father grasping
and clutching what he could,
letting some dreams
and aspirations
slip through his fingers,
then crumble to pieces
before his very eyes.
How I Keep My Body Parts Intact
I avoid decapitation,
the edge of a curb
where a cannibal
might drag me into their car,
any barber shop
that has a ceiling fan
whose leaf-shaped blades
would continue spinning
while it fell,
severing my head,
any train track
where a shoe might get stuck
and I'd be run over,
any high place
above the second floor
where I can fall
and break all my bones,
and like I said,
anyone who might drug me
and chop me up
to make a stew,
basically any risk
of dismemberment,
through cannibalism
and other means.
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