I’m listening to where the fire
from his father’s manifesto, fingerprints
on aluminum, I don’t know how
love want to be burned
to respond, is he still
little things separating
rice from stone. Nothing neutral
rustling for my little mean men
without such violence, tamarind,
turmeric. Osiris pretending to be
burned down to my nerves
fish eyes, she cries mustard seed.
I become slow, slow, sour. I mean
not be person then but story
not tree but root
everything ripples under
a malignant sky, I try
the storm this trick: these
unexpected bodies bottle of star anise who return
even as its lines burn to close.
© 2011 Ching-In Chen with the Collaborative Manifesto Remix Project
* Italicized words from Todd Wellman, Anna Catherine Coyle, Bushra Rehman, Carol Gomez, Hari Malagayo Alluri, Paul Ocampo, Melissa Morrow, Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha, Melissa Sipin, Rachelle Cruz, Evangeline Ganaden & Monica Hand.