Naomi Huan

Naomi Huan

 

HOUSEWIFE IN A PUBLIC PARK

 

My child’s joy is my lament.
In this afternoon when the Sun recklessly pisses his shine
all over the glossy grass, the dry trees,
we are both his grateful sluts. One smiling, one not.
I am carrying
two jugs of whole
fat
milk,
two jugs of jiggling cottage cheese –
life has kept me full.
Because fighting back is hard and pointless, I am only
his mother with blueberry muffin smells.
He looks back at me,
frolicking towards me and trying to save me with his happiness,
with his golden fingers loaded with Gold Fish seasoning,
smearing it all over my pale pink dress with fuzzy edges.
He has beautiful translucent pupils and soft hair;
he has creamy skin like fur;
he has…
Sometimes I want to beat him up like a bottle of ketchup,
and the rest of the time I want to love him forever.

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NAOMI HUAN is an undergraduate student at University of California, Irvine. Her poems have previously been published in literary magazines such as Black Napkin Press, Spires Literary Magazine, New Forum etc.

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Read more by Naomi Huan:

 
Two poems in B O D Y
Poem in Black Napkin Press
Poem in Spires
 

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