Clara

The beauty of a Chinese woman is
in her cheongsam. And the night
catapults in black smoke through
a screen of silk. My father’s car is old
and fast enough to outrun the moon.
We fail each other. I have the figure
for this. In the Central Business District
every building writhes on a bed
of saltwater. He drives faster, down
to my last diamond stud. Blue cotton
rings my waist. From the backseat
my mother’s voice seethes like an egg
through the cracks of my fingers. All
the women in my family have these legs.
One day a daughter. At my throat I
close each button, collar the light. No
art to the slit. In shopping bags I hold
everything I remember of my life.