A surreal image of a bright colorful heap emerging from the ground as though some impossible force was pushing it upward. The Price of Rain The truth is that no man has taken anything I didn’t give him. I mean, no man has taken anything I claimed as my own. My body, my stink, my land to plant in. It’s never been about the price of lettuce. How many times have I taken something that did not belong to me? Queen, queen, I croon, pulling up handfuls of greens. My, my. Property’s still theft. I let my wet skin slip through the drainpipe. My mother says love, in our family, means sacrifice. I thought, if I lay my legs on the altar, I thought something would come back to me. Mine, mine. I offered it, being promised rain. Being told my wet was in the common domain. I whispered, Our body, our legs, our compost heap. I gave freely. I gave it for free, thinking that made me wingèd–stork delivering herself to herself. Look how free I am. Dowager Slut. Queen Regent. Turns out, there are no synonyms for King. My lord, my darling, my darkening sky. You can’t buy a thunderstorm. Nor should you bring one back from the dead. But I threw open the gates. I invited them in. I said, Help yourselves. Then watched as they went room to room, taking, emptying the shelves, sucking marrow from the bones, and overhead, the sky filled with rain. - Franny Choi

Big Heap (2025)

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