Amy Gong Liu
Mr. and Mrs.
are doing the foxtrot.
Their children,
Already and Yet,
tell me to go down
to replace my hips.
The tea shatters.
I tell them I am
getting older.
They cough in
unison, and I am
conscious.
My skin is the
color of a lemon.
They huddle in
the shade during
summertime,
as if they were
afraid of their ribs,
or the contrast
of their veins
against the flesh
of their arms.
This is no matter.
I watch them
like how I watch
snow fall.
Sometimes,
I get the urge
to set my own
lawn on fire,
just to watch
the colors note
against my sky.