From the Iron House

                                    after 鲁迅

For all the places I kneel on bruised
knees: a sheet of snow, scarred streets,
the crusted carpet on my sand-scratched
floor. How new boots leave marks on my bare
ankles. How a spring snaps in my mattress—
I wake up to all the sparrows dead
on my windowsill. Winding kinesiology tape
around my ribs until all the air flees.
Google says it’s normal. This shortness of breath.
This bruising. This inflamed voice box.
Silence. The fear of disturbing the sleeping,
of their knuckles against the back of my throat.