Heart toughened
Once in a year trip to see them,
might as well let it be the day
for the granddaughter's ballet recital,
perfumed by the lilac bloom.
Packing the suit case, with slow brewing
joy and Jun day scent; but
a strange, brief stench.
Sudden ringing of night phone;
heart churns with the daughter's
dismal voice: "We have a problem.
the septic revers flood the basement,"
(No wonder the stench.)
"If you still coming, stay in a motel, sorry."
My heart, calm as lake;
it's just a thrown stone on the lake;
my heart still recalls the midnight teen's
car event.
"Dad and I will be there. we've got to see
her perform, sweetheart."
the reversal stench flood;
the midnight police call;
toughened heart;
I can still sleep through all that!
©Byung A. Fallgren
Weekly Avocet- #606
Art of Love
Art of Love
"Wife wants you and dad come over,"
his voice on the phone. "It's holiday!"
"I'm cooking, Mom." her voice
a background song.
"Sure, we'll be there," I chime.
At first, genuine appreciation.
On second thought:
her cooking, spicy and greasy, yet tasty;
with cabbage, tofu, etc.
all those known to be healthy food;
my tummy says no; my heart yes.
I'd just visit,
for the food is visit is art of Love.
©Byung A. Fallgren
Siblings
Siblings
We are like the fingers on our hand;
when an echo from the mountain calls
you, our ears perk, our nose twitch,
until we know you are still in the sun.
We are the petals of the flower;
we shudder in unison in the rain,
we smile at the touch of the sun.
When we begin to fall, one by one, in the wind
of time, we shed tears celebrating our lives,
until the last one to go. Wish to come back
as we were; petals of the flower;
year after year.
©Byung A. Fallgren
The Weekly Avocet-#605
Another Bull Snake
Another Bull Snake
He snacks in the junipers
on a mouse; slithers out
to see the lady with the lawnmower,
not noticing him at her heel.
He calms his churning heart, moves along
the wall, as if to say: avoid shit, not because
I fear, but it is dirty.
The lady stops the mower and scream;
eyes fixed on him.
Uh, crap, he hisses with a shudder;
moves toward the rusty tool box to hide
under it; in a quick one motion, snatches his
tail and a hiss.
He thinks: how lucky, to escape the machine's maw,
saving him halved.
She thinks: how lucky, the heel is still good.
Passing wind whispers: for them fools; lucky day.
©Byung A. Fallgren
The Weekly Avocet #604
Somehow
Somehow
Dorothy Chan
for Norman
You visit me in a dream, after passing,
after I've been awaiting you for weeks,
because Chinese belief teaches us our
loved ones will appear when we are asleep.
It's real when I enter the hotel restaurant
in the middle of nowhere town I live in,
as the Midwest architecture transforms
into Kowloon at evening time. We eat
bird's nest soup, and I remember the time
my father ordered me this four-hundred-
year-old delicacy at Hongkong airport.
Out comes the Peking duck, and I ask you:
"Why did it take you so long?" you answer:
"I arrived once you are strong and ready."
Dorothy Chan is a queer Chinese American
poet. They are the author of Return of the
Chinese Femme (Deep vellum 2024) and
Revenge of the Asian Woman (Diode Edition,
2019) and the finalist for Lambda Literary Award in
Bisexual Poetry, among others. She's an associate
professor at the University of Wisconsin,
editor-in-chief and Cofounder of Honey Literary Inc.
Ode to the Pink Lilac
Ode to the Pink Lilac
The aroma, mingled with baby's breath, fill the air
of sunny morning or rainy evening.
Close your eyes and take a deep breath
of the scent; easy to Imagin love; love of Mother.
Rain showers over the bloom all night; fallen petals,
leaving only one or two clusters browned,
your delicate scent gone, it seems; but
what is that sweet aroma rushing in my window
in the night breeze?
I know it is you; but you tease:
who? me? No.
I still think it is you. who else bear such a fresh
scent as fade away, like Mother's love?
Sweet, resilient aroma;
fills the round the old house, in the street,
in the neighborhood; in the dark world;
as the bloom fade in the moon,
like Mother's love.
©Byung A. Fallgren
Byung A. Fallgren 