the great leap forward

wu xian shen


.


my father threshes
the thin green grass,

sets it aflame.

              our mother gathers
              the cinders, mixes

              a meal into grey.

here, a dish born
of a dying garden

:

my brother is the first
to eat – he does not die

immediately.
                    so we follow,

joking about the smoked spice,
laughing until our tummies hurt:

one swelling
                    after the other.

we huddle around the shithole,
our faces wrung like rags


.

father leaves as we enter
the kitchen

                  where is he going?

she sweeps the quiet shards
of his anger.

                   did he drop our plate?

i touch her cheek and she looks up
to plant a kiss on my furrowed brow.

                  go see a movie,

she smiles, giving us a penny each –
mine, wet in my palm.


:



       we hold our bellies
       like rice sacks – white
       in the glow of cinema –

       devouring the images:
       the enemy flag,
       a smoldering sun

       begging, please
       feed our crop



:


we play soldiers on our way home,
hurrying as we near;
                  brother tastes victory
then pales at our door:

mother, a shaking reed
of alkalosis, on the kitchen floor


               then


           a limp fist
           of poison
           and flesh.


.


father returns to see us
knead tears into ash,
a cake to the afterlife:

for the dead hunger,
but have no mouths




.