I have a fish stuck in my throat.
It thrashes too much,
flailing and twitching, missing
creeks and the bubbling leaps
of salmon that passes easily through
my parent’s lips at dinner,
as I hear my fish-tail tongue flap in the air,
choking up words that cut
conversations in half.
Shì. Yes. Bù. No.
The echo of knocks on the front door,
the waiting, pounding beat of
yào, yào, yào
washes up belly yellow
on soft, vast sands of want, want, want.