xué. xue. xuē. the words all sound the same
yet i try anyway.
the hànzì skips like stones over water across the page
soaring, like the swallows, shifting past, then down below
and into the waters, glasses fogging like gentle sobbing.
i am finding my mother’s tongue in places
stars humming beneath the pillows
crawling out my stupored mind
haunting like the midnight horns
and all these terrible places.
i never learned my mother tongue but now it learns me.
i don’t know when the mid autumn festival is
but i like fried eggs in my soup just like her
i like the music in the chinese films she makes me watch
and i look both ways
when the subway meets the station
pondering the warning line,
our peeling yellow skin,
and wondering how i’ll write her name
the day she meets her grave
—Mike Liu (Zhagaram)