I am thankful to not be a fish
again in this life.
When I see a restaurant tank
my jaws swell in remembrance
gulp ice water like air
It could be worse, my dear
my mother’s port-wine birthmark
ripples around her neck
as she waves her fork
She does not eat beef.
My daughter is inside me,
the size of a peach.
At night we dream of falling.
It is not to be feared
because her wings
beat us aloft, one-two
as we step down from the sky.
Was I delicious,
she asks as we pluck
cloves from her hair and skin.
Very.
© 2018 by Hal Y. Zhang