House of Cards EP

01
My mind is a hallway that should come with a warning: Don’t
walk through, stop right there! On the right the doors never
open and when they do, they tell lies. Don’t
believe them. I’m showing you this for your own good.

My mother smiles.
Don’t point at the moon, she
says, it always wins.

02
The insides of my eyelids are moving picture screens inside
a theater. On the right is the ocean, the tides
are high, the moon full. The water carries my brother too far
away. I’m showing you this because it’s the truth.

My mother frowns.
Don’t point at the moon, she
says, your ears will bleed.

03
The newspaper will run a story of a man in his early twenties, carjacked
at gunpoint by the reservoir behind our house, the bullet
going in right above his ear. He’ll be listening to Shipwreck
when it happens, I’m showing you this because the papers won’t say.

My mother doesn’t look at me.
Don’t point at the moon, she
says, your brother did.

04
The moon is a crystal globe that hangs in the sky, suspended
by strings, my fingers at the ends. Doors slam. I read truths
in the sound they make, echoes down an empty
hallway I’m showing you this because nothing else makes sense.

I worry about the moon when I can’t see it.
My mother’s face on the surface, craters
for her eyes.

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Susan L. Lin is a Taiwanese American storyteller who hails from southeast Texas and holds an MFA in Writing from California College of the Arts. Her novella GOODBYE TO THE OCEAN won the 2022 Etchings Press novella prize, and her short prose and poetry have appeared in over fifty different publications. Find more at https://susanllin.wordpress.com.