MAP (7) by Ye Chun

/ / Issue 1, Poetry, Series

7. Olympia, Washington

The Pacific Ocean shovels coals in the distance.
My drunk friends drop pebbles at me as I lie
on the couch losing water. Be happy, be happy, be happy.
I’m trying to see spring sprout, mountain that smells like green apple,
grass younger than me, to see the pink sweater
I wore when the sun sprinkled pink dust and I practiced
xiang gong to make my body fragrant,
not the speeding lines of the steel tunnel,
a hand gridding its fingers on my ribs.
I’m trying to breathe, to reach water or an address.

In the white house

with white windows

who spends the night?

The dead say: don’t

talk so loud

I can hear you

even before the words are said

In the woods

there is a bird

whose feathers

have every color

in the world

You’ve seen it

You’ve gathered

every name of it

in your throat

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