baba tells us the story while we crack salted watermelon
seeds between our teeth. handful after handful, dipping
back into the bowl—roll, scatter, sharp clap as the front
tooth bucks into one black shell, another. Who wants
tooth bucks into one black shell, another. Who wants
to make a decision like that? he asks. the crack, the salt,
the air parting as wài pó enters the room as she was
the air parting as wài pó enters the room as she was
back then, hair streaked with silver, mouth a smudge
of blues and pinks. the needle to save her would cost
of blues and pinks. the needle to save her would cost
twelve thousand yuan—at the hospital, they stood, made wet by
grief. the lamp yellowed wài pó’s wrists. the room, airless.
grief. the lamp yellowed wài pó’s wrists. the room, airless.
