Across the wire, my aunt is gutting fish. She asks to see my face.
Then, in a blink: my mother’s face, grinning on a screen.
She knows it’s night here, tells me it’s time for bed
but what if I wake up and the world’s gone dark? What if the last I see of my mother
is her hair in a shower cap, her rows of teeth, the window at her back?
She tells me to pry open the glass, and breathe.
And then sleep, and then sleep –
but what then? Oh, God, what then?
Mandy Moe Pwint Tu is a writer and a poet from Yangon, Myanmar. Her work has appeared in Longleaf Review, Tint Journal, and perhappened mag, among others. She currently studies English at the University of the South. Hang out with her on Twitter @mandrigall.