Portrait at Noon
Jane Wong

To be true, the rhododendrons settled into water
into a grave of glass returning

Fern disappearing
in green. Specter of Apology, Sepulcher
of the Open. My brother pulls grass with both his fists, emerging

as empathy. Without a choice. Division
by zero. Exponentially
folding into a corner. No such thing as
a bee's eye, expanding moss on the grave
of my grandfather I lay my head
against. I shrink from multiplication.
The leisure of the body's cells I could cry out

Impossibility of attributing a value for it. I find it strange
that my hands do not fit each other. I am sorry.
Inverse of accident, apogee. I am. Migrating

sun across my face. Ants of the upper earth, moving in single file. Upstairs, my mother turns the faucet on
and off. Water drips from the ceiling

and I too am run-off. The wind at my knees. Everywhere, people are walking with their hands
behind their back as if trying to say something

I close my eyes to see
I can not be held. Recoiling from a tree I have no connection to.
These days, my face clouds in a mirror. I place a hand
upon my forehead. I can not brush it
away. My hair pours

across my back from which I cry out in the soft
light. The melting point of bone. I was told folding into the spine
is simply a matter of map: you must be contained. 0,

. Field guide of your name, if on paper.
If your name is yours, do not

take it from me. The torn book, alphabet of no-
where. Clasped, the people walk. A bolt of silk
falls into a river. It doesn't matter what I want only

form gives voice, gives the empty
face a yard through which my brother covers himself
in grass. Until birds
nest. It is infinite, this trying