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published in Cantocutie Magazine Vol. 4

I want to eat fresh caught fish

my mother smoulders in the sai kung sun 


I tore through two tea bags without a cup to brew,

my sister sits fourteen days in a hotel room 


I see months in little white squares
my city croons its swan song.


I sift through stolen time, knuckle through the haze of backlined streets

my mother says not much has changed if you don’t look for trouble. 


I see mass exodus and stone faced teens,

my language is the fruit of a pitted seed 


I am entreating into a self punctured with small holes

my city my moor look what they have done to you


my home is resting in the arms of its owner,

lapping up cream with a jaw muzzled tight 


I am not neither here nor there I am not drunk on the idea of 

bisecting myself clean for  consumption 


betwixt the both of us,  person and place: 

I cannot staunch two wounds on my own. 


I cannot tell a heartbreak from a home  

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