the moon’s cold embrace as she
weeps, melancholy trailing down in tears of torrential rain as my
mother spits into her pork dumplings to my sisters reminding them not to trust
wolves in rabbit clothing, while i remained trying to decipher the language they speak
in its intricacies because i can’t speak love
  to invest vibrant colors in calligraphy,
arts and crafts but how can i when damp ink stagnant on blank parchments
while my sisters’ calligraphy brushes dance dotted with jolly; they play with their
cherry red matryoshka dolls while i am silk figurines – colors drained by time and
neglect like how my mother exiled me to by the remains of the moon’s melancholy
and tears of women with tarnished reputations,
   spoken by lips that have kissed a frightening insecurity
telling them that they are silk figurines, but only because to become a concept that my mother can understand
since she invests herself in these flawed concepts as a darkened sky, painted by clouds
soaring lanterns that replace the stars in the moon, molding tea into the cup she
thinks i am, holding my silk figurine close neglecting reality
sitting on wet grass