Poems featured on The Gladdest Thing
The dead piled up, thick, fragrant, on the fire escape.
My mother ordered me again, and again, to sweep it clean.
All that blooms must fall. I learned this not from the Tao,
Oh, the contradictions of having a broom and not a dustpan!
I swept the leaves down, down through the iron grille
and let the dead rain over the Wong family’s patio.
And it was Achilles Wong who completed the task.
She blossomed, tall, benevolent, notwithstanding.
— Marilyn Chinend