drift

by Litong Nie

Leo Visions/Unsplash

my mother named me in a smoke stack, in sordid puffs that meander past the pacific, past bays that burn ochre at dusk. they collect me in a plastic baggy where we’re all labeled “made in china” and pay seven thousand in rent with mailboxes that catch nothing good —  bills, taxes, and condolences that can’t cry, eviction notices from hometowns that can’t keep you. i’m a peng-bird that perches on gas station coffee, nesting on trucks that saunter down route 50. i’m ink-blotched photographs of beijing apartments stuck by the golden gate bridge in undelivered parcels, years too late anywhere.

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Litong Nie is an emerging poet and philosopher based in San Jose, CA. His work is published or forthcoming in Bending Genres, Neologism Poetry Journal, and Prosetrics: The Literary Magazine. He enjoys taking walks at dusk every Sunday while listening to Radiohead.