Letter #51

Letter #51

Today there’s a self-drawn sketch of rice

on my forehead, a tiny sorrow.

This mourning is the unhappy reward

of what we never talk about.

Today I tire of birds,

cut off my wings. A tiger

devoured my arms,

an old disgruntled tiger.

It drank my blood,

disappeared like smoke

resembling the roar

of an insomniac ocean.

Today I walked into the surf
with my pockets full of rocks.