by Anna Song

crown my palms with ambrosia

so that the blood of a perfect plum

falls past my wrist, dripping off

the cliff of my elbow as the scent

of nectar, so sticky yet sweet,

clings onto the split ends of my hair, as an 

infant child reaches for its mother.

my mother and i wage war at midnight,

only to renew peace with bitter words

burnt at the tongue, and perhaps

a platter of fruit to match sunrise-

i will continue to leave the

pits and seeds to rot in the stomach 

of the bowls that once housed soups

made of MSG and plastic seasonings

in hopes that one may blossom into a

better daughter that will sleep beside

the falling sun.

and i will continue to steal peace offering,

after peace offering from the fridge,

for what else would i have to aid the moral

hangover that plagues my chest when i wake?

pray, i do not kneel by my bed at night,

but i still whisper into my pillow,

thanking god for my stomach; for if not

for my umbilicus, there would be no proof

that i came from a mother