The rusted factory gate is closed,
an ulcered mouth.
The acrylic air spews
sour on my skin.
I clutch the sales kit like faith,
but no one has time for me.
If suffering can speak,
let it speak like a mother.
My life has just begun
to know its end—
Like a stone into a well, I will
make a sound.
This is my pledge
against the vast silence of my country.
After all, I’m also a poet; I live
among broken things.
One day, the world will be just fine
without me. But I won’t be
afraid as a June bug.
I will put down
my suit and say good morning
to the bone-white dawn.
A mind-room opens
in the shape of a book.
I see myself walking into it.