Vanessa Niu

Oral Tradition After My Mother's Emigration

            1) thereafter the upper bust is asphyxiated to
                recall the marble of caesar or hypatia, smooth
                as the movement of peeling a clementine on
                a day too humid for any other fruit. the fingers
                of a saint crowned too young defiling pulp
                divided like veins. no discernable difference in
                streak patterns than a leakage of vitreous humour,
                journeys of rain blackening limestone.

            2) perhaps then a portion of the torso remains
                dangled like a toy for a cat, a carrot in front
                of the donkey or even a daughter in front of
                a mother. the crucifixion in the bathroom
                mirror, half-hung and moon-rimmed, taunting
                your martyrdom could never be as beautiful.
                blackbird nestled in the narrow crook of a
                shoulder, alleyway conducive to hurtling.
                throttling of anything with wings. placed below
                her window.

            3) rope closed around legs like the last net of fish
                for starved fishermen. before the sun is rendered
                unable to hold back the monster of other men.
                revolved by cosmic drainage. danger is most
                prominent here, in the depression where the calf
                hits the thigh. pores hooked onto each individual
                fiber whispering to not let go until the night is over.
                the feet wrapped in parcel packaging, latchet of the
                shoes loosened like a broken love lock. uprooted
                from the earth and from the soles strings of
                microfibrillar muscle ligaments. the fishing boat
                passes under the bridge and feels the emptiness
                beneath them in the water as it holds the boat. the
                fishermen did not know nothingness could be so tender.

            4) do not worry. the head has not been lost. enshrined
                 in the dark undercurrent of the village where her
                annunciation was first documented, where the fat
                of the cheeks bloomed into the soil in the spring
                following being forgotten, blushing into the buds
                of clementine flowers. the eye sockets slowly empty
                into desert-blown homes for nightcrawlers during
                thunderstorms. bone into bud into birth. into rain.