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Poems for Yeye
Him
He is a shadow
hunched over the hospital bedsheets,
coughing black spittle onto a canvas of white.
He moves slowly across the room like honey,
gray wisps of hair tucked behind wrinkled,
drooping ears and leathery skin, hard ribs
protruding from his stomach
as if gasping for air.
I refuse to meet his eyes,
sad and weary with forgetting.
Instead, I will remember
the version of him that
carried me up four flights of stairs
and tucked me in at night
when I was just a small bundle in his arms,
the man who stayed up with me
under the ink of a bleeding crimson sky
to drink tea and recount stories of his youth.
I will remember his hands –
weathered from decades of
grasping,
reaching,
holding,
swollen from the weight of two wars
and a revolution
yet full from the love of a daughter
and two grandchildren.
I will remember his eyes –
crinkled upward into a brilliant smile
and brimming with laughter and tears,
those eyes that shone
with the reflections of
oceans and milestones and memories.
Most of all, I will remember him
as Love,
Strength,
and Grandpa.
Mirrors
On Saturday afternoons,
Grandpa and I sit at the kitchen table,
where I will spend hours attempting to teach him
the foreign syntax of a new language,
making room in his mouth
for the harsh syllables
of broken English
so that those women at CVS
wouldn’t laugh at him anymore
for his slanted syllables,
his off-rhythm inflection.
His pronunciation of snack
as snake.
He says, eyes full of pride,
that he is so, so happy for me
for making this language my own,
my voice sharp and smooth –
no trace of an accent, baptized clean and
loud as gunfire.
Yet when grandpa speaks,
I see in his heavy cadence
a mirror to a country that
should have been mine
but which I’ve long since abandoned --
Beijing summers
sticky with white-sheened sweat
and smoke-swathed skies,
suannai yogurt
and night markets of flailing fish and nostalgia.
City of his birth.
City of his leaving.
Once, I asked grandpa
why he decided to come here,
knowing that he would meet nothing
that would want him.
He placed his hand in mine,
told me,
Baobei, this is what family do.
They break oceans for you. They break oceans.
Now, as grandpa and I sit hunched
over the kitchen table,
reciting words that don’t fit in his mouth,
he smiles at the brokenness
not with shame but with pride,
his laughter like
the most beautiful of songs,
a celebration of flesh and blood.
And I want to know his smile
and his broken English
and his stories of China
like a second name.
To wear his voice,
imperfect and stunning,
on my skin.
Home
“For the two of us, home isn't a place. It is a person. And we are finally home.”
-- Stephanie Perkins
Grandpa’s hands tremble
like wind against the hospital sheets,
calloused like the banks of the Yangtze --
soldiers and water buffalo passing through.
His palms are bloody
with pieces of his mother’s skull,
streaks of red gleaming against untouched white,
her screams silenced by the sharp teeth of
a bayonet.
Us, forgotten –
our land,
our culture,
our people.
Stripped like the bark of the weeping willows,
bruised blue bodies dangling from branches
like torn shirts from a clothesline.
He remembers a time when
home was a foreign word
with no shape and no sound,
a siren without song.
Across the mountains,
pockets of earth
erupt inches away
from his soft face,
his swollen eyes
red-rimmed like exit wounds
and glassy with the reflections of bullets.
His tears stain the cracked earth –
running through the geographical veins
of the Motherland,
carving rivers to fill the saltwater seas
of the earth.
And now,
he sits immobile, a steady mountain
eroded by decades
of wind and fog and smoke,
yet standing still –
standing always.
Clasping my smooth fingers
between his coarse ones,
he rests his mottled cheek against
the crown of my hair
and tells me
that this
is the safest home
he has ever known.
On the Eve of My Grandfather’s Dying
“Closed eyes, heart not beating, but a living love.”
-- Avis Corea
The most beautiful part of his body
is the bone clinging to his skin
like a prayer. The way his cracked lips
arch into a toothless smile
beneath a wet mesh of plastic tubes,
his breaths shallow and unsteady --
rising, then
falling,
the melody of a song.
His eyes lidded shut,
the words I love you whispered like a
desperate salvation, as if some final attempt
to stop this unraveling.
This is what I will remember:
My cheek resting against his chest,
underneath which I can feel
the synchrony of our heartbeats,
the slow fading of his lungs.
His lips ghosting across my forehead—
a kiss pressed to porcelain-cracked skin,
delicate as a rose.
This is what I will forever hold onto:
the soft mourning light
silhouetting the hollow curves
of his skeletal frame,
his skin golden like the sun –
Him, the most tender of fires.
Me, closing tear-blurred eyes
as our hands seek each other’s grasp,
reminding myself that this is what the living do --
that we come into each other’s lives
despite the burning,
if only for the
interlude of warmth.
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