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"This House" • Japanese Breakfast (by t.r. san)


//

what if one day memory folds onto itself

like a sieve and down my skin-drain goes


objective correctness and true shadows

and your absence has built a new present


– not grief – in the leftover sediment, and

dictates the future in bichrome sepia


//

father of my father smiled at me 2 months

before he died, the way a stranger would


be smiled at. i was one already before his

memory birthed new blood, but the kind


you trick yourself into pronouncing strange,

the kind you look away from, ashamed—


//

my father is forgetting names. when drunk

i am his sister and he boasts my entry


into dentistry college because his teeth are

giving up their enamel. teeth bond us together


as he bites me and says her name, animalistic

then the next day he forgets mine, animal


//

my name sounds a lot like animal. i pretend

i can distinguish what meaning truly is


when i turn my head at every mention

of beast, creature, skinless being. i fail.


what if one day i don’t know you?

what if one day you leave?



t.r. san is a transsexual poet based in yangon who writes horror without meaning to. its name translates to exemplary grace & is homonymous with animal.

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