Khot-jebi, orphaned children of North Korea
They flit, the abandoned ones
from seed, to grain, to rice
little ghost birds
that sift the soil
hunched on stick spindle legs
pinched thin enough
to pick your teeth clean
they unwrap garbage
like birthday presents
nibble forgotten rotting bits
feed the parasites curled in their bellies
that keep them warm at night
dust weighs their hair
pales their paper skin
to a powdered death mask
for a dance that no one sees
with eyes wide open
they steal into China like third hands
dream of being human
knowing one bullet would be enough
but sometimes they shoot twice
here, here little birds
my palms extend in Hieroglyphics,
in dollar signs
miles, miles, miles away
how do you keep your face from breaking
Writing 