Fisherman's Son

They flew above the mango trees
like a school of fish in the sky
and as they did my father left us in a dark coat
with his boat and the last word I heard.
No, he said, and threw his coffee into the dirt

ground by the sound of fleeting sands and storms.
My mom slammed the door and awoke her child
named after her husband, Song Fong, 
and she wished he was dead, or returned to china,

she said, to suck the tit of his tea green mother. 

I took my mind and left it on the hill, 
where the birds could watch it from above
if they ever knew where to find me.