Do you know how many hours I’ve wasted watching straight boys play video games? Enough. Time is a mother. Lest we forget, a morgue is also a community center. In my language, the one I recall now only by closing my eyes, the word for love is Yêu. And the word for weakness is Yếu. How you say what you mean changes what you say. Some call this prayer. I call it watch your mouth. When they zipped my mother in a body bag I whispered: Rose, get out of there. Your plants are dying. Enough is enough. Body, doorway that you are, be more than what I’ll pass through. Stillness. That’s what it was. The man in the field in the red sweater, he was so still he became, somehow, more True, like a knife wound in a landscape painting. Like him, I caved. I caved and decided it will be joy from now on. Then everything opened. The lights blazed around me into a white weather and I was lifted, wet and bloody, out of my mother, screaming and enough. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/152940/not-even-this

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