the fragrant tang of incense cedar, bright green
in gray winter and the memories a scent can stir

 

 

the palm reader told my mother the water was poisoned

that was a long time ago

out in the middle of the valley, where the rice fields stretch for miles in every direction, they’re putting in a new well, I don’t know why. the drilling rig is three stories high and lit up (like a Christmas tree?) at midnight.

we resort to clichés

I had hoped to show that we are all complicit in this

some things resist description