seven seeds

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