Poetry Archive


I have failed to root each time — nothing is home
But for 41 weeks, I was hers, and she is now mine.  

    Filleted on a platter of surgical steel
    With crinklings of stark white sheets
    garnish disguised as comfort
    harsh, sterile cotton
    temporarily disemboweled 
    anesthesia flowing the highways of my flesh
    doctors and nurses come to and fro
    opening the pomegranate cavern
    so that my caged bird can sing
    and breathe life
		 Breathe.  noun. 
    		1. the air with which we take in or expel from the lungs like a blown out tire.
    		2. what we hold when life becomes too erratic and anxiety grips our soul.
    		3. the action one takes when s/he is about to experience a miracle.
   The cardiac monitor, cold and white
	red beams 
    rise and fall on a lackluster screen
    beeps the voice an aria
    Lorelai’s love song
    tachycardic no more
    a canzonetta sull’ aria
    My village
    My warriors
    My dulas
    My medicine medicine men

The iambs of the heart 
the ebb and flow tempo of an amniotic sea 
a harmonious rhythm 
like a banyan tree
two souls tethered
roots entwined

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Filed under: Poetry Archive


Kim-Ling Sun is a poet, writer, and educator. Her work is inspired by her life experience as beautifully blended mixed race Singaporean-Chinese American. Her latest poem "Dirt Spawn" appeared in the chapbook Faceless Brown Masses: A Blackout Response to Flatiron Books. She teaches Dual Credit English at a local high school in Houston, and was the 2018 recipient of the Outstanding Teaching of the Humanities Award in Texas. She also teaches creative writing workshops in the summer for WITS (Writers In The Schools) working with youth to develop their creativity and voice.