I walk past the mental hospital], and: [Some humans are living sewers], and: [The things we carry—what to do?

Abstract

[I walk past the mental hospital], and: [Some humans are living sewers], and: [The things we carry—what to do?] Kevin Phan (bio) [I walk past the mental hospital] I walk past the mental hospital. Mother lived thereonce, in her mid-20s, her spectrum too tired fortears. Friendliness without conditions toward allbeings. Something to feel into over & over. Shamein space. According to Thy will, this wall ofstorms. All of my relations & stuffed crust pizza.Joyless surprise, mother dead at 59. Rootbeerfloats & wheelchair happy (final) birthday.Cubbies took the World Series—applause sewn in.Cheesecake for all! "If it's not one thing, it'sanother," mother said, "I'll be dead soon." Wordslandslide. No remorse. Flat facts slay harder thanthe others. From the necks of my brother, myfather, my aunts, my uncles, my niece, my nephew,my cousins, the walls, the dead, the sky, thebathtub tenderness streaked—little silver arrows.The dankest honey is grief. [Some humans are living sewers] Some humans are living sewers. No, we don'toriginate from "shithole countries." Fact is, the only"shithole" coming to mind is the one betweenTrump's nose & chin. Every glad leaf of each treewill slap its hand. Soft applause for beautiful flaws, [End Page 182] for ex-loves reeking purple grief. Figments of mydog-walking neighbor slurred down the street—flash bang rage—raging down his dog namedCharcoal. "Charcoal, Charcoal, Charcoal, Charcoal,Charcoal, get over here!" Mother's eternity,spangled in gold pine needles. Mother, anotherhorizon I'll no more touch. (Dead ones bumpingdown my heart's soft walls.) Whole countries ofhumans, whipping up hate speech, bleeding thedrugs in, reeking sex, humming applause. For me,Buddha + Jesus all day—both made waves. "Whenwe die," says my uncle, "we fall like leaves,returning our energy to the roots & source." I heareach generation, past & future, calling to me fromour shared earth. [The things we carry—what to do?] The things we carry—what's to do? At the airport,on the way to my mother's hospice, I distinctlyremember crying into a Big Mac. Hardly even shyabout it. Denver International Airport—Gate B29.December 4th, 2:45 pm. Terminal carpet, Coca-Cola stained. Shakes like a quarry giving up.Watching you watching me. Grief drunk & scuffedby glower. Nakedness in public while still wearingclothes. Nobody asked me where it hurt. Orangepill bottles, blueprint to a luckless life. "Bonecancer, pelvis soft as cottage cheese. Not normal.She won't last long," sd doctor. Her final line,"Hello, Kevin," then she died. "He has taken all thegalaxies / into his face," wrote Rilke. Fine to thinkour inscapes Barbie-pretty. But aren't we all merecandidates for the coming slaughter? [End Page 183] Kevin Phan Kevin Phan is an Asian-American poet from outside Denver, CO. His work has appeared in Notre Dame Review, Colorado Review, PANK, Poetry Northwest, and elsewhere. His chapbook, Closing Waves, will be published in Black Warrior Review. Copyright © 2019 University of Nebraska Press