Khaty Xiong

Bad Blood

The dead return. Black. Reincarnate. They have paid the entry fee.
They come to tell me my clothes are unfitting.

I have been predictably unlucky—American-raised, tastes and all.
It is said the mouth guides the ear—the same ear that guides the body.

Exile opens such possibility, and ghosts remind you to care. Somewhere,
someone remembers for me the two ways to remember stories.

The mother tongue is only a myth, guided and guarded for reasons to keep on.
I mean language touched by letters, the ones that teach surrender.