We gild our gory parts with peach and glitter
In scarcely fifty years the foxes turned by increments to dogs.
Sometimes you just have to die about it
Child upon child goes, and someone’s mother is no longer that.
at the Angel Island Immigration Station our bodies levitated in minutes, ticking, ticking, alive, alive; forgo mercy and forgo hunger; slurp the pig slop; our muscles in 1911, 1912, we turned ghost and ghost again