I remember the day you left me 
because I was chewing soft chrysanthemums.  
Bitter white juice stained my grief. 

Maybe that’s the reason why you always come back to me 
whenever bitterness welts on my eyes.


I’m not your eldest son,

                       how do I access your archive?

I’m not your daughter,
                 how do I sound my loss?

And the day when I join you,
                I wonder what my mound would be like.

Installation view at The American Institute of Thoughts and Feelings’ UBOI (Tucson, Arizona).

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