Naming is an act of caring—Martha, Toughie,
Celia the Pyrenean ibex who died twice.
I take 齐 for myself. To what end?
Terminarchs have no say.
Why don’t you want children?
Because because because
because Sudan died lonely in his rarity
and I turned twenty-eight. Because
to be rare is to be alone.
A family’s branch can start or end anywhere.
I turn nineteen and ask: Can I break myself
off, graft closer to my root?
I turn seventeen and 姥姥 dies.
Birthdays are gifts of grief. Sorrow too large becomes apathy.
I would trade my unborn children for a single thylacine. I am
sorry sorry sorry
willing that I could be the end
of my family
genus species
Fran Qi is a lost engineer and a renewed writer based out of San Francisco. She writes some fiction but mostly poems, published in The Baltimore Review, Sky Island Journal, Orange Blossom Review, The Dawn Review, and elsewhere.
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