Independence Day

Sarah Lao

The television sputters out anthems 
& I watch Mother split  

her last melon into a million fireworks.
Kingdom White, Red Family. How the two 

meld & ricochet in the spray. I want 
to take back everything I’ve lost:  

my half-eaten fisheye. Pet cricket. Diary 
of hatched nomenclature. On screen, another             

pop star walks out & I’m dreaming
she pukes soda over the crowd 

& sings a verse on all the birds marooned
in a pseudo-taxidermy museum.  

As if severance from our painted decoys
was ever a probability. Say preserve. 

Say perverse. Sing it. Always, the dust bunnies 
holy our bodies into something bright & moonish 

& whiteness licks streaks to the bone. Always, 
I upend the family tree from its roots. 

Always, I chart the future like this:
I bleach my hair. Make idol.  

Die a yellow martyr.
It’s 11 pm & the night peels itself 

out of a tessellation—still & gun-dark.
We’re desperate. We share bedrooms. 

Mother ditches her sliced melon, glitzy qipaos,
an old stash of fortune cookies all saying  

happy life, long life, good luck.
I shut off the television & rap quietly 

on the glass display case. Press my ear
close & wait for a reply.

I unseal it to break light.