xin cháo
is what the hungry ghost cries,
as she tries to chow
down the chow…

it drips from the silver spoon,
and slips into the bowl.
this comfort 
food
is too difficult to consume —
there is a lack... 
of satiety

she is sick
and she feels lost

empty

how does a hungry ghost eat?
when all she does is wander?

home is where the hungry ghost should eat...
and my mother sees her yearning…

for fulfillment;
a need for more 
comfort

she calls out to her:

“xin chào.”

catching the wind
is how i end up with a cold.
feeling all sorts of these invisible 
scratches, 
i start to realize
that i don’t feel so well

mother, i tell her,
“there is a ghost inside of me.”
soon after,
its familiar scent
begins to itch in my nose…

it sinks into my skin.
herbs on my body, 
oil on olive turns into bright red.
scratches come to the surface.

it seems as though my mother
has exorcized 
the chills out of me

so much so, 
that i cannot seem to show
my skin 

or else 

to others,
her love becomes bizarre.

it is so foreign that —
they are convinced 
it is wrong.

but i feel warm.

to swallow the swallow’s empty nest
means to take all that she has built —
away from her,
is something she once called home

meant to be forever?

if forever was truly an eternity,
time would never stop…

for anyone,
to continue growing…
there must be fragility
before there is stability.

sticks and stones
may break her bones,
but a mother always knows,
that her young will never stay

young.