blogging at lunch… don’t call this a blog!

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found in the sunday globe magazine (isabell bonapace)

hanoi bell

(a black-out poem)

when i was 8 they came from hanoi,

in the sweltering heat, women delivering babies into the night.

my mom smiled and said, “the narrow hanoi streets can’t

pronounce ‘hello’ and neon lights laugh at the tiny girl

alone

in front of a small concrete building with the warmth

of a cold night.”

 

children pointed at me

at the clinic i heard one ask, “why?

disappear.”

 

i hid my face

replaced my “otherness” with the night.

 

girls taunted me for relinquishing language

but i hadn’t been able to bond

and i left my mother

in this room.

 

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About istsfor manity

i'm a truncated word-person looking for an assemblage of extracted teeth in a tent full of mosquitoes (and currently writing a novel without writing a novel word) and pulling nothing but the difficult out of the top hat while the bunny munches grass in the hallway. you might say: i’m thee asynchronous voice over in search of a film....
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