Marriage

Of alluvial fields I dreamt.

The idea of marriage:

the great barrier reef with

coral bleached and dying.

Evidence of resilience,

they say, absent a catastrophic

event. Whatever it takes, I've

decided, I don't want

my maternal line to die in me.

I wear my mother's dress.

I watch my body shapeshift.

This face, which hasn't aged

in years, is sunspotted.

I am no movie star. I shrink

from my mother's beauty.

She was, above all else,

good. Her lupus her reward.

Or maybe I am her reward.

I know I'll never be grateful

enough. Between this man

and this man, my eggs are

losing count. Inside your domicile,

how am I to feel alive?

Once again, we face extinction.

The libraries not on fire, but

under dust. I don't believe

in loyalty above happiness.

I dive and dive under

the turbulence. One day, too,

my bones will empty. White blood

cells will mutiny. Do you run

headlong down the hill

into disaster? In the park,

a swarm of gnats insists

on clustering. Insects

claim the interior. The flies

touching my face, again,

again, again, and again.

—Cathy Linh Che