They lost Ah Fong and We Chung
when the Gold Line cut through east LA.
Workers wear respirators
sweep unclaimed cremains
agitate the air with disinterred dust
alluvial fans of powdered bone.
Chinese character for fan—
feathers living under one roof.
I name them
Zhang Mian. Hiding face.
Luo Shan. Round face.
Every plume a person.
California is out of water. All the palms are dead
but it’s raining in Romania
where a man cuts graveyard grass
with scissors. Eats a cheese sandwich. After that
he cuts more grass. I picnic with Orange County carney dwarfs
and immigrant Bucharest acrobats
in Evergreen Cemetery on the east side
of LA. Have my picture taken
next to the cement lion. Listen to aged midgets brag about that time
in ’35 Sister Aimee Semple McPherson preached to the circus
about her resurrection in Agua Prieta—
how Sister laid hands on the snake lady and cured scales.
Mark Lee Webb is currently an MFA candidate at Queens University of Charlotte. Mark has published two chapbooks: WHATEVERITS (Finishing Line Press, 2014) and The Weight of Paper (ELJ Publications, 2014). His poems have appeared in many literary journals, including Ninth Letter, The Louisville Review, Soundings Review, draftHorse, Glassworks, Chiron Review, and The Baltimore Review.