Tammy Ho Lai-Ming

T a m m y   H o   L a i - M i n g   

    No Hoarding

When there is cold to fall into,

forever winters. I smell the creaking pines in the fireplace.

Roads are dug and dug, missing a gas pipe.

I become the cold: stuffed bear, oversized gloves.

Full cotton panties, not strings. While Dante

wears a black-and-white frock, I stir asparagus cup soups

double-thick. My socked toes make sound more fun

than the dripping taps: in the kitchen, in the toilet, in my mind.

Somewhere, surely someone is mailing a paper coffin.

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