Takhor Sorakaliul
Yellow noodles, made of play dough or rubber
Huddle around those four gray prongs
for warmth.
Olive Garden; when you’re here, you’re family,
which I guess is why the salad looks plastic
Why the salt is stinging
right in the spot where my cheek met my tooth
when my mom’s was introduced
to my face, earlier.
Only an hour ago
she gave up on words
and spoke with her hands
“Look what I have to do now
that you aren’t little anymore.”
A wise old tree, sat in our living room
shed a tear of honeydew,
leaves crestfallen and
branches curled inward,
for what can a tree do except watch and
feel
when growth has stopped?
Dad knew better it was just that his roots
were too deep.
All families are under construction.
Paving over bad memories
with pasta and salad dressing
popcorn that crunches like autumn leaves
theme parks and movies,
the times we should be having, but we
only have fun
on the heels of fighting, and we will fight
if the only thing on the agenda
is fun.