Thursday, July 23, 2015

Yu Ling Duck


When I splashed past the equator, that crease
running halfway across the red and white
checkered tablecloth that covered the globe
I ripped off my water wings, hurling them to
be ensnare the carp-finned dragons that twisted
across the carpet. I let myself sink into the thick
sticky pond of crimson tar, my bubbles remaining
unnoticed by the waitress in her cheap porcelain
Noh mask, unnoticed by the mother scolding
her daughter for dipping the tip of her ponytail
in the duck sauce, unnoticed by the walleyed girl
and her date in the Led Zeppelin t-shirt who sit
eyes glued to their phones, not saying a word
to each other until their six hundred pounds
of shrimp and chicken arrive, loaded with a crane
from the barge that has been towed
by a sluggish tug from the kitchen.
By the time they fish me out, I'll be nothing but bones
in the bottom of a white take-out box,
a scarlet pagoda stamped across my grave.

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