The Song and Dance of Area Zero

24. 明
My glasses reside in a gold, silk case.
Black calligraphy curls from its corners,
and delicate square seals decorate its sides.
These motifs are Mine.

The sun and moon—Mine,
sacred symbols in straight, square lines.
I squeeze too tight on the tiny wood chop,
and lucky red ink spills
from my palm to the stamp.
This motif is Mine.

The red bride—Mine.
The spice of star anise in stew—Mine.
Stinky tofu—Mine.
Clanking coins in a red envelope,
floral fabric enveloping my neck,
intricate rattail fastenings—all Mine.
They're Mine.

I swear on the sun and moon,
my sacred symbols in straight, square lines,
that these motifs are Mine.

25.
My wrist hurts,
my eyes sting,
my brow aches,
and my brain is pained.

I spent the whole day drawing.
Now my homework calls my name.

26. Sunday Sonnet No. 4
Your tears, my dear, fall heavier than hail—
a reaction most suited to your plight—
but I beseech you, let me tell my tale
and beg on bended knee you’ll quit your flight.

Your twin, your shadow, came amidst the mist,
her charcoal feathers gleaming ‘neath the moon.
She stole your name from off the invite list,
and flew into my arms at the first tune.

I danced with her, delighted and confused,
for never had you let me hold you close.
I should have noticed, should have seen her ruse,
but trust I thought of you when I proposed.

Revile me. But please, speak no denial.
I’ll always love you more than dark Odile.

27.
Muses, why have you forsaken me?
My childhood desk is riddled with objects,
little bubbles of memory and inspiration
that sit, tantalizing, waiting to be popped.
My childhood walls glitter with old art,
a quilt, a kaleidescope, a mess of colors,
any of which could blink me back
to days gone by.
This house is a strange intersection,
an opportunity, a branch in the path,
and despite its myriad shiny things,
nothing shines bright enough.

28.
My horn resides in my childhood home.
It springs from its case,
singing, shiny, and silver,
as I step through the front door.

Would that I could bring it with me
to the sparse apartment I live in now,
so that my return will be heralded
and not disdained.

29.
The family dining table may be laid out
with sumptuous, scrumptious offerings,
a rich array of vibrant colors
that tickle the nose and tantalize the tongue,
but nothing compares to the satisfaction
the solemn, solitary joy,
of picking out food for myself.

30.
Momentous May,
might you please slow down?
Might you stumble, or fumble,
or just turn around?
I'm not ready, Miss May,
for the change that you'll bring,
for the burst of this bubble
I've been living in.