母女

after Tan Dun

In fear of the Red
Guards, Po-po cooked
the 家譜, scorched our family

tree for rations. Ink on parchment
could not soothe the bore
of bullets, bloat of bark, meals

of ash and raw bamboo—
when a spoonful
of rice was revolution.

Hand in hand, we once walked
in silence for congealed milk
and pocket candy from 7-Eleven.

Now you are blackened lungs, buried,
betting joss at the Sha Tin
Racecourse. The dead

horses circle the track
like trapped koi. The winnings
never yours.

I wonder if you found
your mother. If you wanted
to. Bedridden Taai-po reduced

to a handful of sweets, bound
feet, persimmons shriveled
in winter frost.

After your funeral, Maa-mi bragged
that she didn’t cry, mocked
Yi-maa’s brays of grief.

Our women
once sang
xxxxxxx女書

xxxxxxxxxbroken
xxxxxlanguage, heavy
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxtongue.

Perhaps Maa-mi left
her words embroidered
in the silk of a fan, in the rubbish

of government tenements,
the upturned bed, spare
scrap fabric drenched, then

drowned in Kowloon Bay. She
insisted, There is nothing
to save. Fed the fireplace

her diaries—blue
coals of a fruitless
June—limescale

of heirloom Nina Ricci,
pirated TVB, acetate
jewelry crowned

music box. All the spoils
of her factory years.
Matriarchy resigned

to love’s feeble
promise, Russell Stover
and BIC ballpoint pen.