i have become obsessed

with angel numbers

and the romance of fingerless gloves

and free samples of expensive hot chocolate

our working class parents could never afford

london's sky is gray and pink

and the seabirds are circling over the pier

i reach for the phone

but i don't know who to dial

i loathe love's inertia's in winter

when temptation of overdose has me

in a chokehold --

because hostage or not

it is nice to be held

it's all my kin have known

below the bridge

the green waves are heaving

with oil spills and wild sea-murmur --

sickly, like the gull's polluted plumes

i want to melt in the meadow

so i buy rose essence at the ethnic supermarket --

i paid rent last night,

there's no money for perfumes --

but no matter what

i always end up smelling like my mother:

like tiger balm, like an opium den.

my skin is yellow; sickly, they tell me.

so i smoke vogue cigarettes

even though they are bankrupting me

because if i don't know who am i

let me at least emulate my ancestors

scrambling at shanghai's docks

for milk of the poppy,

those red flowers

that make Death lasciviously lick his lips --