2 Poems by Zhou Sivan

On Apologia

After A., there is only aberration of de-sire, codex bucolic

fingers sliding fish-deep, dialing Z gene, veteran oil blue.

We flip through my baby photos and find one of Madonna

’n Child. O the inverted double You in the face of Mother

looking at You in the mirror. All that comes at your throat

is a fractured baby blown to bits and his displaced middle

finger ready to poke your eyes out. The stunted Lacan—O,

dios mio. Which is better: to hide dolcissimo in the eye of a

hurricane, as the crowd at your wedding dinner cheers on

a sensational trial of mother-fathering shame, or to give in,

first, by flagging your reproductive organs for the Nation,

while in the privacy of your bunker, go jingo-ballistic on

your stony abdomen? If life is all-consuming, breathing

fire, then hell is the human lung with cilia prickly lined

by tiny gingerbread men who caress their tender buttons.

The relatives can gossip all they want. Woe to all mothers,

shrivelled-up women who, like Nietzsche’s Baubo, were

the only cynical ones to find the truth. Mother has never

been more alone with truth. My beloved mother-of-pearl

inlay in the motherland of thou-art-holy, I am so far away.

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