by Cynthia Cruz
I crawl along the wet floor
Of my mother's childhood,
A serpent, or a long-buried secret,
In my mother's bisque
Chiffon gown with small stars
Stitched in silver, a crown
Of tinsel pinned into the dark
Blonde knots and dreads of my hair.
I follow a sequin thread of dead
Things, stop when the moon clocks out,
Polish my long nails in the sun.
*
I'm drugged again having given up on lovely bitter powder potions (which i've concluded are better for treating long term illnesses slowly) but not having the heart to tell my white-bearded neighbour traditional chinese medicine doctor (who just called) that i switched to pills though i rejected the antibiotics from my adorably stern teletubby family doctor and i feel like Chief trying to beat the fog, beat the combine, run out into the salty night like the dog, the more i research on comic history jumping from one tab to another luce now i know how it feels but i never got to your level of tab madness google chrome is very good doesn't hang like internet explorer and you can STAR your favourites i chose the theme with mushrooms and elves in a woody forest and why are there so few female comic artists maybe i could meet lily lau and lat and kenfoo who hates facebook so much been rerereading Boy they went ISLAND HOPPING with their fearless mother during all their norway summer holidays oh roald you and quentin are my heros and quentin apparently has never married! i have been sleeping alone more than i ever did my entire life as grandmother is accompanying cousin in his house i found out that opening the windows at night lets you really feel the night and its orange darkness and the sounds of crickets in the forest nearby and feel the soft weight of the black tar outside and know of the possibilities of things while aircon suffocates you inside i can't breathe anymore aircon or the green phelgm tickles and my little baby cut her hair short yesterday as she bounded down the stairs she had a thick shiny chin length bob with a straight fringe (just like i had when i was my auntie's flower girl many years ago and they took that awful pouty photo in the living room) and her crazy violet plastic glasses and she was wearing her old mustard-and-navyblue spaghetti strap from giordano kids, a hand-me-down and her butterfly-thick eyelashes, a hand-me-down too that i have some of, and her silver-capped bad tooth, and it was like magic exploded before my drowsy brain but with my last bit of coherence let me describe what this cough-syrup feeling is like, like when the titanic hit a crazy huge iceberg in nowhere and you are falling, tumbling, nodding off to a place where it doesn't matter...
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