Foxconn Riots, Taiyuan, September 2012
Some nights I wish to see my mother this way: live, handheld,
a breathing coma in my hands. Digit by digit my hand
comes apart, tissue from phalange, aluminum from bone.
An icepick for frost, a scalpel for lathe—I carve the icon
into each metal press. Midnight in the dormitories: pigeons
drop shit on the suicide netting. Mysterious gods show me how
to replicate my hands, how to mold ammunition
from shapeless muscle, how to play midwife to machines.
Each little wire insinuates our worth. Yesterday I obeyed,
but tonight we blow the bullhorn, trade our prowess
for din. The factory’s too quiet—it asks for siege. I love
a racket that kicks up dirt. It’s our wager to march away.
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