scalding the underside
of my tongue first,
then searing my entire
being of immortal madness
what secrets do you stow
in the pockets of conspiracy
theories discarded like
a ghastly exoskeleton –
make haste to embed
tiny chips of abundance,
chaos pulsing beneath
that luscious molting
skin me silently
tempt swine with my layers
break them off like the last twigs
no longer awaiting
the final advent of Spring
The night you couldn’t quite remember
how we came to be, or why
the complacent sky peered down
at our scattered transgressions
and returned to its lair empty-handed,
not wishing to partake in our sorrow.
I could not see your eyes in the half-light –
(nebulous with doubt, surely)
I realized then that you had been unable
to see me for a long time now.
I could feel the woods closing in
all around me and I did not stop them.
The Distance Between Us
I remember peering at my mother
in my childhood home, this always-bustling woman
who eagerly doled out the choicest portions for me
and kept the discarded aftermath for herself; I witness
a decades-old waltz of being both a daughter
and a mother, the sea between separating
a beloved country left behind and a stranger
left wandering an unwelcoming land thereafter.
This past week, she traveled all this way to us,
hastily left bags of frozen homemade dumplings
on our doorstep, rung the bell and fled
back to the ordained isolation before I could greet her.
When I boil them now, my husband devours them quickly,
exclaims “delicious!” and returns to his work.
I take my time to savor them, conjuring up images
of her craft perfected over years and seasoned with sorrow,
nimble fingers pinching tiny treasure boxes
closed to harbor all that’s within.
Even now, my mother continues to teach me
abundance in the face of scarcity.
Melody Wang currently resides in sunny Southern California with her dear husband and hopes to someday live in the Pacific Northwest (or somewhere with equally gloomy weather). She dabbles in piano composition and enjoys hiking, baking, and playing with her dogs.