anchor

Poem by Millicent Sharman

Art by Monica Feng

My mother hands me cong you bing and

I learn to take the layers for granted.

Half-hearted punch thrown at my playground bully

and I panic to wonder if my back was ever forced against her door,

Baseless threats on her breath and I’m smelling burnt sugar; it’s the way 

all my failures smell.

I went back to the willows the other day—

found a little girl in her brown floral dress.

We spoke of the sound of plastic dress-up heels on laminate.

I find I have no true memory of my grandfather’s music, only

the ocean outside his window. Thrashing hum

anchors the silence of agony; it’s the way

all my forgetting sounds.

At the monkey bars, she asks for my forgiveness.

Green onions in the fridge long enough

ask to be cut. Knuckles taut,

I can’t find a way to those kneaded layers. 

Even now I’ll shrink back into that dress,

lost again to the yawning sea.