$8+tax in 1998 meant
i wrote 9 days of journal
in Chinese that i would slowly
disremember
when we moved we moved 2 blocks
to the other side of Key Food
on Roosevelt and Main
i got sick again
when nephrons shouted
for anarchy
and my kidneys lost it
for a while
at home,
braiding lanyard on the soft leather sofa,
school and citywides disappeared,
and so the energy to run
or walk
or walk on water
turned to wine.
when i dreamed of
walking without rocks
sinking down into my spine
i dreamed of chases
running in black
and the something that i never saw
so close behind the open door
framed in
episodic repeats
perfectly timed
on better days,
mom said, don't jump on the sofa,
it's new, you'll--
dad said, she won't do it when she's older,
so--
so i jumped unto the cushions
with some guilt and
childhood happened
in the air, in the fall.
when we moved to Forest Hills
i had grown older
and the sofa, still so new,
stopped at the door
of our new apartment:
the leather giant was too tall
and stood for two
hours in the hall.
1 centimeter.
we thought we could overcome
1 centimeter.
mom and dad told me
don't push, it is too tall,
don't push, it is too low.
and do you know why we can't move mountains?
because the sky is too low
and refuses to grow.
so the door said, no,
this will not pass, not pass
with each push we gave.
dad wanted to slash
open the leather
all that leather with the fold-in bed,
all of that expensive new trash.
fire burned through his throat,
burned through his pocket,
burned through his wallet.
"keep the cushions,"
so we kept the cushions.
on Monday garbage day,
when i came back from school,
the fold-in bed
and the beige cured skin
were gone from the curbside.
when i grew up
the journals stopped,
and i forgot Chinese.
$8+tax now comes in an hour,
but they no longer carry
dogs named john cherry.
dad was right. when i got older,
i never jumped on the leather sofa again.
and you won't understand.
