Homunculus

(or How To Grow A Body)

By Wanika Fan

I. Barbershop  

It was mid-wash when the aunties started lamenting

the city’s lost its vibrancy.  

It’s a ghost town for the old now. 

Firm hands rinse the suds off my hair.  

I stare at the ceiling and pluck an old song 

from the air crooning for  

a few more years to dream.  

I don’t think this applies to me. (This does

not apply to me)?

II. Moving day  

They are taking apart my childhood bed

hanged, drawn and quartered.  

I take down the sticky notes on my

wall, 

stack them in a cardboard box,  

as I heave it to the new apartment  

all I think about is that they’re taking every

inch from me.  

III. 7/11  

On my way home I stopped for  

something to eat. The aisles held  

a familiar roster,  

flavored milk, yogurt, processed meat.  

I see them in my sleep.  

I scrutinize the labels like I know  

what they mean.  

Essential minerals, sugar free.  

Type 2 diabetes produces insufficient insulin.  

I’m stalling for time.  

I paid for the milk  

and took the long way back.  

IV. Kitchen  

My mother said, rinsing the plates, 

that I had changed in all the wrong ways.

I used to be more confident than this.  

She looks at me sideways now,  

with question or weariness. 

What did she expect?  

I don’t know who I am yet. 

V. Planarian  

I coaxed the worm from its hiding place

to sever it, head from tail.  

A clean, surgical cut 

I beheld it with love.  

When I got into med school I cut my

dream loose,  

left it blunt and flopping in a hollow trunk. I

watch the worm now, body flailing, and hope

that mine too might crawl back to me.  

VI. Smoke break  

For old times sake we sit counting  

trains in the distance,  

their headlights the only stars.  

You rub the alcohol from your lips  

I’m not ready to lose this.  

VII. Barbershop 

Tools laid out like a bird on the doorstep

what are we thinking of? 

I watch myself in the mirror,  

staring, not blinking,  

and hear her say  

let me grow into someone new.