Category: Poems

• Ritual 礼仪

  Ritual
  by Kathryn 君妍 Gwun-Yeen Lennon

  Let your feet take you to Chinatown
  唐人街
  to the Boss Bakery – recommended to your mother
  by the owner of a Chinese bookshop.
  Stare at the many flavours of mooncakes
  月餅
  through the glass case
  as customers jostle you, speaking Mandarin
  and Cantonese.
  Try to decipher the price-tags.
  They don’t take debit,
  you have no cash. Wander the surrounding
  blocks until you find an ATM.
  Withdraw money. With gratitude.

  Return. The server will ask if
  lai sik gong gong dong wa,
  if you speak Cantonese?
  You wonder if it’s because she sees
  a jade pendant around your neck,
  the one your grandmother gave you.
  You respond, siu siu, gong siu siu,
  I speak a little.
  She calls you, lang lui,
  pretty girl,
  says you are ho lek,
  very clever.
  She is impressed that you cho dan che,
  rode your bike.

  Buy two individually-packaged
  mooncakes. You can’t eat
  a whole box alone.
  When asked if it’s a gift, say,
  no, no, just for me, no need to wrap it.

  Let your feet take you to the Sunny Spot Cafe,
  西安凉皮肉夹饼餐厅
  neighbourhood greasy spoon
  with all-day breakfasts,
  Xi’an burgers and biangbiang noodles.
  The awning announces: “hundred tastes on your tongue
  to solve your homesickness.”
  Eat lunch.
  Wish the owners a zhong qiu jie kwai le,
  happy mid-autumn festival.

  Let your feet take you to the corner grocer
  with organic peanut butter, tortillas and
  pomelos dressed in red ribbons.
  Buy one.
  Don’t stop to ask yourself how
  you will eat it alone.

  Return, to your rented room.
  Ask the internet to teach you your traditions.

  Follow a Facebook link about the origins of the festival.
  It tells you that tonight is the second most important Chinese festival,
  the autumnal equinox, a moon bright enough to harvest by.
  It tells you that mooncakes and round fruit symbolize completeness and unity.
  That we should share mooncakes, one slice for each family member.
  It tells you that this festival is about gathering with family, giving thanks
  for the harvest, and praying together.
  It tells you that fruit and mooncakes must be laid out as offerings
  for the Earth God and the Moon Goddess.
  It tells you the story of the woman who swallowed the elixir of immortality
  and flew up to the moon to become a goddess.
  It tells you, this is why we worship the moon, heaven and earth.
  You had forgotten, but now you remember your mother’s voice
  telling you these stories when you were a child,
  can see the goddess placing the elixir on her tongue
  and running through the corridors of her husband’s palace.

  Text a friend to ask,
  does she want to eat mooncakes with you?
  She’s busy. Wonder how you will eat one alone.
  You are alone
  and have no incense.
  Now look out your bedroom window.
  The moon is bright and round.
  Let your feet take you to the kitchen.
  Take dragon eyeballs, long an,
  three candles, and the mini mooncake
  your cousin gave you.
  Place on a tray.

  床前明月光
  Let your feet take you outside, under the magnolia tree.
  疑是地上霜
  Light candles.
  舉頭望明月
  Lift your head and look up at the bright moon.
  低頭思故鄉
  Lower your head and think about home,
  wherever that is.
  Lift your head, and wonder how to pray.
  Think of heaven 天
  think of earth 土.

  Break the mooncake in half, exposing
  the salted duck egg yolk surrounded
  by lotus seed paste, and place it
  in your mouth.
  Tell yourself you should enjoy it.

  礼仪
  Translated by Wai-Ling Lennon 姚慧玲
  

  让你的脚带领你到唐人街
  唐人街
  到大班茶餐厅 – 是妈妈在书店工作的朋友
  给她推荐的
  凝视着多种不同的月饼
  月饼
  透过玻璃柜
  其他的顾客会碰撞你，他们说汉语
  ，也有的说广东话。
  你尝试去为价格牌解码，
  他们不收直接过户卡。
  你没有现金。慢慢地走，拐一个弯找到自动柜员机。
  取了些钱，感恩的松一口气。

  回到茶餐厅。服务员问你
  “你识讲广东话？”
  会不会说广东话？
  你想，是不是你脖子上链子的玉坠
  告诉她
  我回应：“少少，讲少少”，
  我能说一点点。
  她叫你“靓女”
  美丽的女孩
  她说你“好叻”
  好聪明。
  她对你“踩单车”称赞你
  骑脚踏车。

  买了两个独立包装的月饼。
  你不能自己吃一盒四个月饼。
  服务员问“是送礼用的吗？”
  “不，不，只是我自己吃的，不用特意包装。”

  让你的脚带领你到西安凉皮肉夹饼餐厅，，
  是油腻腻的汤匙餐厅，全天供应早餐，
  西安汉堡和油泼扯面
  店外的帐逢写着“舌上百味解乡愁”
  吃午餐。
  祝餐厅老板中秋节快乐，
  快乐中秋节。

  让你的脚带领你到角落的杂货店
  他们卖有机花生酱，玉米薄饼和
  绑上红彩带的柚子。
  卖了一个。
  不要停下来问自己怎可以
  一个人能吃得完一个柚子。

  回到租住的房间。
  问互联网关于中秋节的习俗。

  跟随一条脸书的链子去了解节日的来源。
  它说中秋节是中国第二大的节日，
  秋分点， 一个月亮的光线足够用来点亮收割时节用。
  网页上说月饼和水果是代表圆满和团结。
  我们需要分享月饼，每人得到一小块。
  他们说月饼是让大家分享的。
  他们说这个节日是关于跟家人一起，
  为秋收而感恩，一起向上天祈祷。
  网页又说水果和月饼必须放在桌上
  给土地公公和月亮仙子作奉献
  他们说，这就是华人供奉月亮、苍天和凡尘。
  你忘记的，现在你记起妈妈的声音
  当你还小的时候，她曾经告诉过你这些故事
  说有一位仙子把长生不老药放到舌头上
  在她夫婿皇宫长廊中跑，跑啊！

  你微讯一个朋友，
  请她来跟你一块儿吃月饼？
  她在忙。你想怎样能一个人吃呢？
  你是独个儿
  没有香。
  如今你从卧房看外面。
  月亮是又光又圆。
  让你的脚带领你到厨房。
  拿出龙眼，
  三根蜡烛和表妹给你的
  小型月饼
  全都放在盘子上。

  床前明月光
  让你的脚带领你到屋子外面，木兰树下
  疑是地上霜
  点亮蜡烛
  舉頭望明月
  把头抬起看着那个明亮的月亮
  低頭思故鄉
  低下头来想想家人，无论他们在哪儿
  抬起头，想想怎样祈祷，
  想想高高的上天
  想想脚下的土地。

  把月饼分成两半，看到
  咸鸭蛋黄被
  莲蓉包裹着，轻轻地放进
  你的嘴里。
  告诉自己好好地享受那美味的月饼。

  February 23, 2020

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• Hunger is Inherited 饥饿是传承下来的吗？

  

  Hunger is Inherited (Inheritance)
  by Kathryn 君妍 Gwun-Yeen Lennon

  Cooking is confusing
  when the stomach
  wants something but the head
  doesn’t hold words to know
  what these ingredients will become.

  I see my mother’s mother, Pau Pau,
  her hands folding
  bamboo leave triangles around sticky rice
  squatting on a newspaper in our kitchen.

  I see my father’s mother, Grandma Lennon,
  her hands unpeeling
  Kraft singles
  sitting by a window in a red dress.

  I’ve gone searching for recipes
  in the kitchens of other grandmothers
  only to find them stuck
  like tea leaves to the sides
  of my cup.

  Until the only thing left to do
  is to visit the only one left.
  I cross the world
  to see Pau Pau.

  Now, here I sit, hoping that she’ll speak to me.
  Hoping that she’ll teach me
  hoping that she’ll spill kitchen secrets
  of black beans, cornstarch and soy sauce
  brought to a boil, and
  thickened.

  But what I learn instead:
  to thicken my skin
  so her words will not hurt me.

  My Pau Pau’s skin
  is paper-thin, blue-veins raised like
  remnants of the great wall
  and I wonder if the great wall of her
  stubbornness will ever fall.

  She falls more often now,
  has broken both hips, hit her head.
  The arches of feet that once squatted
  in the street, selling vegetables,
  bok choy, gai lan, choy sum,
  no longer hold her.
  But she is stubborn and fear of falling
  is nothing compared to the fear of failing
  to feed one’s family.
  She still remembers hunger.

  She worries that I’m hungry,
  gets up to shuffle into the kitchen
  and I follow, hoping
  I will find kumquats preserved in salt
  after the New Year, hoping
  I will find secret maps tattooed
  onto the backs of my hands,
  maps that will let me
  crisscross checkpoints and bypass borders
  trading secrets for spices and spices for seeds.

  But, the kitchen is small.
  I’m too tall.
  I don’t know
  how to hold a knife,
  how much rice to cook for two.
  I don’t know the
  names of vegetables.

  She tells me, get out of the way!
  From the sidelines, I watch her
  rinse rice,
  slice wintermelon,
  heat peanut oil in wok,
  crisscross green onions, ginger, soy sauce
  across fish belly.

  My belly has never known
  hunger. Yet, I am afraid
  that when the last Saskatchewan farmer
  yields to Monsanto
  we won’t know how to feed the cities.
  That when the grandparents are gone,
  our tongues will long
  for food that we no longer know
  how to name.
  That the food we eat will feed us
  but our taste buds will not flower.

  I am afraid to tell her why I’m here.
  Afraid to say: Pau Pau, I’m hungry.
  Hungry for recipes for survival
  to help me hold out against the
  day-to-day doubts that come from
  not knowing the words to name my hunger.
  Hungry for the wisdom of women who
  carry the weight of the world on their hips.
  Hungry, because if I have a daughter,
  I don’t know what colour
  her skin will be or what language
  she’ll dream in, but
  I’ll need to teach her to
  trust her gut, to find
  the food that makes her heart
  and stomach fly.

  But, I can’t say this in Cantonese.
  Luckily, I love to eat.

  Now, it’s six o’clock
  the fish is steamed, the neighbours are home, and the news is on.
  So, I pour the tea, fill our bowls
  my Pau Pau shuffles out from the kitchen and takes her seat.
  I turn to her and say the only thing I know how to say,
  “Pau pau, sik fan”,
  eat rice, grandmother.
  
  饥饿是传承下来的吗？
  Translated by Wai-Ling Lennon 姚慧玲

  烹调是混乱的
  当我们的肚子（胃部）
  想要吃东西时候但脑子（头部）
  却找不到那些东西叫什么
  也不知道这些原料会做成什么

  我看着母亲的母亲，婆婆（外婆），
  她的手折叠着
  竹叶包裹糯米成三角立体
  她蹲在铺满报纸的厨房地面上

  我想象到父亲的母亲，Lennon 祖母
  她的手在撕开考夫起士（Kraft）
  她身穿一条红裙子坐在窗台边

  我去寻找菜谱
  到过其他祖母的厨房
  却找到
  就像茶叶粘贴在
  茶杯子的外边

  直至剩下可以做的是
  去探访剩下的一位
  我到地球的另一端
  去探访婆婆
  如今，我坐着，期望着她会跟我说
  期望着她会教授我
  期望着她会告诉我一点下厨秘密
  如黑豆豉，豆粉和酱油
  煮滚，和
  浓化

  但是我学到的是：
  把面皮厚化
  她的话不再令我难过

  婆婆的皮肤
  像一片纸那样薄，蓝色的血脉
  像倒塌了的长城
  我想：她像长城的
  固执会有一天倒下吗？

  这些日子里她经常跌倒，
  她两边的盘骨都摔倒过，头部碰到地面
  她拱形的内足曾经蹲在
  街道上，贩卖蔬菜，
  白菜，芥兰，菜心，
  已再不能支撑她的身躯
  但她的固执和恐惧再跌倒
  跟她恐惧不能养育孩子却是天渊之别
  她还记得饥饿是怎样的

  她担心我肚子饿
  她慢步走到厨房
  我在后面跟随着，期望
  我会找到在盐瓮里的甘桔
  在春节过后，期望
  我能找到像地图的秘方把它刺青
  到我的手背上
  这些秘方
  能让我出入无数的边境和边界
  用秘方换味粉及味粉换种子

  但是厨房的面积太小了
  或是我长得太高
  我不知道
  怎样握刀子，
  两人要煮多少米
  我不知道
  蔬菜的名字

  她叫我走开！
  从旁我看着她
  清洗白米，
  切冬瓜片，
  把镬子里的花生油烧热
  把已切碎的青葱和羌，酱油
  淋到鱼肚上

  我的肚子从来不知道什么叫
  饥饿。但是，我害怕
  当莎士吉川省(Saskatchewan)的农夫们
  给满叁途 （Monsanto）让步
  我们再不懂得怎样给城市人提供食物
  当我们的祖父母离世后
  我们的舌头希望尝到的食物
  但我们却不知道它们的名称
  我们吃的可以填饱我们的肚子
  但我们的味觉却不再会开花

  我不敢告诉她为什么我来探访她
  不敢说：婆婆我的肚子饿。
  我渴望得到生存的秘方
  帮助我面对
  每天产生自我的怀疑
  从不知道用什么字句来形容我的饥饿
  渴望从这些女性中能获得生存的智慧
  她们被生活的压力都担承在她们的盘骨上
  饥饿，因为如果有一天我生了一个女儿
  我不知道她的皮肤是什么颜色
  或她会用什么语言来做梦，但
  我要教导她
  相信自己，去找寻
  令她的心和肚子喜欢的食物。

  遗憾的是，我不能用广东话来表达这些想法，
  还好的是，我爱吃。

  现在是下午六时
  海鱼已经蒸熟了，附近的邻居都回家了，黄昏的新闻报导
  也在荧光膜上了
  于是，我为婆婆倒了茶，盛好饭
  婆婆从厨房走出来，坐下
  我向她说我会说的广东话
  “婆婆，食饭”，
  吃饭，外婆。

  February 22, 2020

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• Three-inch Golden Lotus 三寸金莲

  I’ve been working away on a project, with funding from the Edmonton Arts Council, to translate a series of my poems into Chinese,  collaborating with my mom as my translator. I’ve also been working to create prints to accompany them. Here is a sneak peek.

  

  Three-inch Golden Lotus
  by Kathryn 君妍 Gwun-Yeen Lennon
  

  “They say unbinding feet was as painful as binding them”. (Amanda Foreman, Why Footbinding Persisted in China for a Millennium, Smithsonian Magazine, February 2015).

  The crack of toe bones breaking
  for the sake of beauty
  the crack of toe bones breaking
  to create feet like lotuses
  like feet were never meant to be
  this never happened to me.

  Our grandmother’s feet
  were never bound.
  They never broke
  her bones
  never told her that her feet
  were lotuses.

  Her feet were tough.
  They carried her as she walked through war
  to sell wares, to bring money
  home to her family.

  When she was married, her city feet
  became island feet
  barefeet carrying water from well to field
  on her husband’s farm.
  Her feet became vegetable selling, child carrying feet.
  Her feet were never broken, they were never bound
  but she was bound
  to a time when a woman did not choose whom to love,
  she was bound
  to a society where women are worth less.
  She did not break these rules.
  Our mother’s feet
  were never bound.
  They never broke
  her bones
  never told her that her feet
  were lotuses.

  Her feet were vegetable selling, basketball playing, sandy
  beach feet, sneaking out to go dancing at night feet.
  Bound to carry her away feet,
  away from a society where women do not break the rules.

  Her feet carried her onto a plane, across an ocean, across mountains,
  becoming university student feet, winter boot feet.
  Her feet were never broken, they were never bound,
  but she was bound
  to break the rules.
  It became a balancing feat,
  a learning to stand strong feet,
  straddling the world she’d left behind, and the life she’d chosen here.
  Her feet became standing at the front of a classroom feet, learning
  to ice skate feet, buying Chinatown groceries feet.
  They knew no bounds.
  But she was bound to a time when not all women had all choices,
  bound to a society were she was less than white.

  My feet
  were never bound.
  They never broke
  my bones
  never told me that my feet were lotuses.

  My giant feet.
  I wished I could have broken
  the toes off my too big feet
  when I was a kid.
  I couldn’t stand the feet
  that made me stand out
  stand up
  stand taller than everyone else.

  My feet
  kick run climb curl,
  never into lotuses.

  But I am still bound
  by the double binds
  that tell us we’re not shaped the right way
  that make us accept less than equal pay
  that make me bound to say
  to you, sister:

  Never let those bindings break our spirits,
  never let them break our power.

  Our feet were never broken, they were never bound,
  they are happiest when toes are free feet,
  they are strong stand out, stand up, stand tall feet
  They are choose-your-own-adventure feet, and they will never let us fall.

  三寸金莲（解脱的足）
  Translated by Wai-Ling Lennon 姚慧玲

  趾骨曾经被弄得裂开
  为的是
  美丽好看
  趾骨被弄得裂开
  来创造那像莲花般的小足
  不是用来走或跳的小足
  没有，这事情没有发生再我身上。

  外婆/外祖母 的足
  没有被缠绑过
  他们没有弄裂过她的趾骨
  没有告诉过她，她的足像莲花
  她的足是很受到苦的
  它们承载她在战乱时到处奔走
  去贩卖东西，去赚钱回家
  养活家人。

  当她出嫁那天起，她在城市长大的足
  就变成了小岛妇女的足
  光着双足从水井挑水到菜田间
  那是她夫君的农田
  她的足成为了贩卖蔬菜，背娃娃的足
  她的足没有被弄裂过，他们并没有弄裂过她的趾骨
  但是她是受约束的
  那时的社会女性是卑微的
  她没有破坏这些规矩。

  我们母亲的足
  没有被缠绑过
  他们没有弄裂过她的趾骨
  没有告诉过她，她的足像莲花
  她的足是贩卖蔬菜，打篮球，到沙滩，偷偷去跳舞会的足
  带领她离开家园的足
  离开一个妇女不能打破古老封建规矩的社会。

  她的足承载她登上飞机，度过大海洋，越过高山
  成为一个大学生的足，穿雪靴的足
  她的趾骨没有被弄裂过，他们没有弄裂过她的足
  但是她被驱使
  被驱使破坏了规矩。

  那成为了一种特别平衡的技俩
  学习勇敢地站立
  周旋于她离开了的家乡和她选择这儿的生活
  她的足成为了站在课堂前，学习滑冰，到中国城
  （唐人街）买菜的足
  它们不知道什么是界限
  但是她被女性在有限选择的时代约束着
  被一个不是白人社会环境下的约束着。

  我的足
  从来没有被缠绑过
  他们从来没有把我的趾骨弄裂
  没有告诉过我，我的足像莲花。

  我的大足
  我曾希望我可以弄断我的脚趾
  我不愿意用我的大足站立
  因为它令我在人群中突出
  站立
  站立在令我高于他们的群组里
  这是小时候的我。

  我的足
  踢、跑、爬、卷
  但都不像莲花
  但是我是被约束的。
  被外婆/外祖母遵守规矩而约束
  我是被约束的
  被母亲遵守规矩而约束
  我也是被约束的
  我受到双重的约束
  我们长得跟别人不一样
  我们接受不同的待遇
  驱使我要对大家说
  姐妹们：

  千万不要让那些束缚令你丧志
  千万不要让他们毁灭你的力量

  我们的足，没有被弄裂过，没有受约束过
  当脚趾没有被束缚它们是最快乐的足
  它们是坚强地突出，站立，站得堂堂正正的足
  它们是让你选择自己前途的足，它们是永不会令我们失败跌倒的足。

  February 22, 2020

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• moons of the faithful

  in apricot season

  in eclipse moon

  neither black nor white

  anything is possible

  i am reminded of fortune

  were it not for four thousand years of propagation

  nomads, merchants, conquerors, arborists

  we would not be here at this round kitchen table

  separating flesh from stone

  September 7, 2017

  ---

• Haunted Heart

  Broken heart of this
  city in a straightjacket edged with gold and railroad tracks
  where loneliness is a hedge around a house
  and beauty is an English garden.

  I have a habit of haunting this place.
  When I turn off of gum-and-spit-spotted street
  onto coffee-is-all-you-need avenue,
  I breathe a sigh of relief
  that tastes like an over-priced coffee sipped
  over long oak table in a room with a view
  of the eroded grace
  of those who have a habit of haunting this place.

  Yesterday wraps its feet round telephone wires
  slides its scales under viaducts
  and catches its tail on chainlink.

  This city before a city where bones and rivers
  still sing under concrete
  where the steel slap clap of pigeon wings echoes off glass
  where history oxidizes iron in rain
  and fear begets exclusion begets difference begets disgust,
  begets displacement
  begets heartbreak
  begets rust.

  December 15, 2015

  ---

• Disclaimer

  Never trust a mixed blood.

  She will disrupt.

  She is not trying to be insolent (well, only sometimes).
  It’s just that she doesn’t do binaries.

  You will sort things into black and white.
  She will ask: how could you forget orange, green, purple and gray?
  You will say: those options are not included on this list.
  She will want to say: how about me? but instead she’ll swallow her words and wonder why she has to always make things so complicated for herself.

  She will inevitably complicate things.

  If you want a simple answer, ask someone else.
  You will label this side East and this one West.
  She will ask: if the earth is round, how can it have two sides?
  You will say: why do you always need to ask so many questions?
  She knows that there are always at least 3 sides to every argument, but she will swallow her words because she thinks you might have a point.

  Ultimately, she is not on your side.

  She will not compute.
  She will say: it just doesn’t add up.
  and keep searching for sums until she finds a multiple.

  You will ask her what she is searching for.
  She will answer: I don’t know.
  She will want to say, I’m searching
  for a how-to guide for living in multiple worlds,
  searching for the words to write myself into the story,
  before I get edited out,
  but she knows that
  if she says this, you’ll put her under a microscope,
  so she swallows her words, again.

  She will hesitate.
  This may frustrate you.
  The only thing she is certain of is that there is always more than one way of doing things, and she cannot speak for others.

  She will listen to you speak about “westerners”, and white folks, and “gwai los”, and will nod along, because she agrees that white supremacy is a real thing. She will laugh with you. But keep at it long enough, and she will walk away, because no one is a racial caricature and there are always allies and relationships.

  She will listen to you speak about “Asians”, and she will shake her head, because government-sanctioned race-based discrimination is a real thing. She will like you less. But keep at it long enough, and she will nod along sympathetically because ego, sexism, and classism are universal, and there are always jerks and power struggles.

  Don’t ask her to take you to her people.
  If you have any questions, please see any of the above.

  She will get tired of holding this weight in her mind.
  She will get tired of holding the weight of your questions
  on top of the weight of her own questions.
  She is exhausted from the work of translating
  once, twice, three times
  doing the work to understand the “mainstream”
  doing the work to critique it
  doing the work to understand the “marginal”
  doing the work to critique it
  doing the work to understand the overlap
  finding a place for herself
  then throwing out all her drafts
  to start from scratch, again.

  Left alone, ambiguity is her status quo.
  She is used to gently muddling through
  until it starts to make sense.
  This stuff takes a long time.

  Ultimately, she is not on your side.
  She doesn’t do sides.
  She will crash through walls.
  She will confound borders.
  She is a free agent.
  And really, she’s just another speck in the universe.

  November 25, 2015

  ---

• HA-1A/Chinatown South

  You can’t hold a neighbourhood in the palm of your hand, like a snowglobe.
  You can’t shake it to see generations yet to come.

  You can’t freeze it in a state of red-cheeked celebration
  hands clasped in eternal new year’s greetings
  performing stiff-legged routines.
  to an emptying room.

  It would be kinder to let it
  unravel.

  Let its grandchildren bear witness
  as memories shutter their doors and
  nostalgia papers over its windows.

  Let them come forward
  oranges in hand
  to light incense
  at the altars of re-zoning applications.

  They will re-develop
  postures of defiance.
  They will grow their hair long.

  They will swim upstream,
  through grief, and love and rage,
  shedding skins,
  swallowing water,
  in search of the source.

  November 19, 2015

  ---

• Mid-Autumn

  White is a forgetful state of mind,
  as in blank slate,
  erase your own histories,
  assimilate your differences,
  swallow your stories.

  You can choose not to live this way.
  I am grateful to those of you who choose not to live this way.

  To the knowledge keepers and knowledge seekers,
  the ones with the caverns in your chests:
  thank you for spitting out stories.

  For insolence.
  After 5 generations of eating
  white food, you still hold your heads up high,
  and ask, why,
  should I swallow this?

  For gentleness.
  For sifting through histories with shaking hands
  until you can hold them without breaking
  bones.

  For subversion.
  Submerged, you’ve learned
  to float,
  to shapeshift
  to slip out of skin
  and swim upstream.

  For persistence.
  Abandoned, you’ve patiently
  tended tidal pools
  until meaning floods in.

  For grace.
  You’ve let knowledge stick to you
  like burrs
  carrying it
  to safer ground,
  where some autumn the
  greatgranddaughters will
  gather for the harvest.

  September 9, 2015

  ---

• Becoming

  I don’t know how to become that woman.

  The one who is fearless.
  Who feels great in her own skin.
  Is successful.
  Funny.
  Sexy.
  Smart.

  The one who makes money all week
  climbs mountains on weekends
  and has time for family.
  For friends.
  For lovers.
  For Netflix.
  For fitness.
  And fun.

  The one who irons her shirts
  cooks.
  And cleans.
  Pays her bills on time.
  Does her taxes.
  Washes her dishes.
  Hems her pants.
  And acts like a general well-rounded grown-up.

  The one who won’t wobble in heels.
  Brushes her eyebrows.
  Waxes her legs.
  And can lipstick her lips.

  The one who will get her act together,
  in time to make babies before her fertility shrivels up.
  As in, get a car.
  A career.
  A mortgage.
  A spouse.

  The one who can time travel
  who is part of a community
  who knows where she comes from
  and where she is going
  who speaks the languages of her ancestors
  knows enough of their rituals to share them with the next generations
  who has no time for racists or sexists or creeps
  who won’t be assimilated or erased or exoticized.

  The one who finds balance
  and purpose
  and love.

  i don’t know how to become that woman

  except by being one who wanders too much
  works to much
  thinks too much
  is hopeful
  searching
  asking

  except by being one who, wanting
  to grow up to write stories worth reading
  but worried that she had nothing to say, decided
  to try living first

  August 12, 2015

  ---

• Persistent Process – 河口海口

  My feet will me to estuary.

  To both
  來 and going. Both
  開 and narrowing. Both
  start of sea and end of 河.

  A grandfather stops to look north at 山
  then pluck juice boxes
  like fireweed
  from garbage can.

  A runner stops to look west at 水
  then stretch one leg
  like blue heron
  balancing in place.

  I am learning that my parents are not encyclopedias,
  that my father will lose the names of trees
  and my mother will lose the names of food,
  that as they are forgetting
  I am memorizing
  to meet rising tide and pounding rain.

  July 22, 2015

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