The ground beneath us & Dinner Table by Anya Doan
The ground beneath us
Beginningless dreams strike us before sunrise strike
Eleven pasteurizing years and beating our knees against rice fields
Cool cuts, chafed thighs, knotted with blue veins.
Soon, another miracle at its cusp– we wait to eat.
You expect a pig, a fish, maybe a piece of keo keo,
but I return with the coins you gave me.
“Somebody stole our hen,”
“Somebody stole our hen”–
Somebody in our village stole our hen.
Worse, an outsider stole our hen.
Into my palms, you scrounge and squall like a lost cause
I hold your shoulders and they are stiffer
than how you raised me to be,
a girl.
Somebody stole the hens– somebody stole the hens–
somebody stole the hens.
Rain crinkles down and you do, too
You drop to your knees,
You wipe my feet but you wet them, too.
The fields are heavy but we can still feast.
Let the water wash over my body, so I can crawl within the tender chasms of your waist again.
My breasts are swollen, like yours. And though our lips are hungry and our hair are nothing but
astray strands now,
the ground waits beneath us.
Dinner Table
The ceiling fan lay static
Above the chipped China’s clang.
Bamboo floor mats stretched across impeccably.
Rattan bulbs blink in silence.
Tap water quiver together.
Outside wind attempt to crack our held breaths.
“Con mời cả nhà ăn cơm,” I say under my breath.
Clock handle count seconds in statics.
Chopsticks bundle over rims in togetherness.
Ancient etiquettes cling and clang.
Now we are silent,
Awaiting the elders to taste the impeccable.
Brother speeds to escape the stock market’s impeccables.
I hastily pack up papers, catching my breath.
Father’s plane hover over his worries with silence.
Sister anticipates train of adolescence, despite staticness.
Mosquitoes and flies summon kin to feast neighbor’s clang.
Mother finally unveil grandma’s lifelong recipe altogether.
Round platters invite and bring together
The hands fumble amidst crackles of peanuts
Impeccably.
Corn soup percolate and breath.
Rice grains steam cabbage slices into silence.
Fish sauce and soy sauce drip till static.
Scraping plates sound like clicks of clatters and clangs.
When the silence silences,
We part our seats together.
The tap water runs statically.
The washing is impeccable.
The drain engulfs our breaths.
And continues the clang.
Above the chipped China, clang
The rattan bulbs, blinking in silence.
Outside wind attempt to crack the breathing
Of tap water quivering together.
Bamboo floor mats stretched across impeccably.
And the ceiling fan lay static.
Every night we clang together.
Every meal, the silence is impeccable.
Every moment fills our breaths statically.
Find more from Anya over on her Instagram, and see a Creator Interview from her on the Baby Teeth Patreon tomorrow!
Executive Producers
Daniel Henson
Sue White
