Weather

       by Arlene Ang

There is little to predict:
at random, we sleep and do not
wake. The future is cloudy,


rains scatter on asphalt
like spilt rice. My father
teaches me to chopstick
the last grains from the plate.

During the war he learns
the value of food, family
and soft beds. At some point,
he escapes the bayonets,
never looks back.



Less wise, I've been writing
nonstop for months. Words
patter the page, the t's
tiny antennae that twist from
humidity. On sunny days,
I dry my hair, use the past
tense without blinking.