The first time Lark went to the dream-selling store, it looked like one of those excessively minimalist cafes that had been popping up all around town lately—white-walled and bare-boned with silicone plants potted on the windowsills. The man who came to greet her even looked like a doctor with his spotless scrubs and too-big smile. 

“And you are?” he asked, scanning his clipboard.

“Lark. Lark Taylor.”

His smile broadened. “Now that’s an interesting name. Where’s it from?”

Lark shrugged. Everyone...

    The birds only come once a year. Just when the town starts to forget their migrations, they return, mouths open and hungry for the sanctity of streetlights. Meanwhile, in backyards, parents don’t hear the kids flying themselves from the rooftops, one by one, until corpses litter the ground like rain. And so every year, in the deluge, the town forgets its name, and the birds forget their homes. The kids piecemeal themselves back together and their parents never hear their deaths. The birds...

    The birds only come once a year. Just when the town starts to forget their migrations, they return, mouths open and hungry for the streetlights. Their wings fall off, one by one, until corpses litter the ground like rain. Meanwhile, In backyards, parents don’t hear the kids flying themselves from rooftops. This is how every year, in the deluge, the town forgets its name, and the birds forget their homes; the kids piecemeal themselves back together, their parents never hear...

the other girls call me 留守儿
    left behind
because 妈妈 packed her bags with blouses and promises
        caught the train to 杭州
and shed a single lotus petal tear
            as she said goodbye in a cloud of grime and grit.
i unfurled my love-lost hands, imbibed her crumpled sorrow:
                 加油，我的爱
but the greedy hands unspooling my ratty pigtails
                     knocking my knees against the humid silt
and...