







































Aisthesis      Volume 11,  202058

Two Poems

by Annika Le

Polydipsia

Vietnamese words taste 
pickled in my mouth—
saliva pools out from glands like 
rain gutters in a Saigon monsoon

When I attempt to backbend 
my tongue into unfamiliar tones,
my grandmother’s forehead furls 
into a question mark, and the 
uncles burst into contractions of 
synchronized laughter

To me, the glyphs on letters look like 
ranges of mountains or falling tides 
that mimic the moon’s loop—they taste 
meaningless against my teeth

On the Lunar holiday, we must wish 
New Year blessings in Vietnamese
before she bestows the lucky red parcels—
they sit under her elbow and 
against her ribs like armor:  

Chúc m!ng n"m m#i

What leaves my lips is a windstorm 
of whispers, misspelled mush, 
a lotus $ower without its seeds, 
my jaw now severed like 
the lost string of a guitar 

Again, the contractions of 
laughter, this time from the aunts 
and cousins, too—it descends 
from lips and pools on the tile

I grab a sponge from the belly 
of the kitchen sink, and attempt 
to extract my mispronunciations 
from the $oorboards

Plate of Plums

Grandpa said to
plant a plum pit and
it will split the soil to
sprout high

Each evening, she
cracks the blemished skin,
gnaws away at yellow meat,
and suckles the seed 
with her tongue

till every pocket clears of $esh
and it lays white like 
human bone in her palm

With a toss, she whispers wishes
and the ferns tuck the pit away
into their pockets

In early mornings, she checks
her plot of land as though
it’s a wristwatch

but all that’s new are
dabs of dew on grass blades
from the sleeptalk of clouds.


