I want to begin this poem with two stories: 1. In 1984, my mother was pulled over for speeding in a rural, still unnamed village in Taishan. The cop was a forty-year-old man who let her go because of her age...
He was jailed for cruelty to insects, and his agent wasn’t answering the phone, so he stayed awake in the cell all night, pictures jumping around his head of the cops and the blowdryer they took as evidence. He used...
Six times every day we stand at the thresholds of our cells to be counted, to be matched against the roster of mugs the guards clutch and riffle like assembly instructions as they tramp the ranges, always in twos, keys piggy-bank chanking, at night waggling...