qarrtsiluni

Mom always loved the rain. She loved the sharp edges of the stones
washed with it. Because she liked things clean.

It cleans every alley, she said.
God must like things clean. She was sure of this

more than the broken zippers
and the washed take-out boxes she saved in the pantry.

She loved to bleed.
Maybe she finally sensed God’s cleaning in it.

by Angela Koh

Street lamps flicker on and I’m the last to head home.
Dusk settles over the bare parking lot.

The cold pierces the skin like a syringe to a girl’s arm,
a man in Burma holds her as the liquid sinks into her flesh.

I shift the stack of papers I’m holding and there is no point
in working late. The girl prays, her eyes wide and white.

The tip of my key, jamming into the car lock, fits in.
The man ties ropes around the girl’s wrist to the bed post.

Enough to keep her heart pulsing to find a vein;
she will be awake for a few more hours.

Begging for sleep, she will see a pike of lust
stretch the soul out of her body. I see the sky.

The first drops of rain slide down the windshield.
The girl begins to hum like the start of the engine.

by Angela Koh

:: :: :: :: :: ::