print previewback SALLY WEN MAO
Dirt-eating Poem
Dear stranger, deracinate me. Pull
my head out like a turnip and spare
me the instructions for piloting
ruinous spaces. Amphibious town
made of mica, in which the cascades
tumble predictably, in which seasons
resurrect the same stinkbugs, tulips,
bellyaches—the illness of mistaken
wishes has branded me an outsider.
Pardon me: I’ll find the way to make
hope scarce and live with the correct
privation. The kind that isn’t borrowed,
too cruel or kind. Clothed in tongueless
solicitude. Fit for eunuchs or ghosts. 
Dirt-eating Poem
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