白沙 《 white sand 》
my home is missing the smell of baisha cigarettes and regret. i wonder if motherland dreams of the diasporic, or if dreaming is synonymous with the hurt. UNTIL DEATH DO US PART homage to a tradition in which love and death walk hand in hand; light my cigarette so i can microdose death like a sickly child crawling home to mother — if death is yearned for, where is the motherland?
*published in thanatos review in 2024











