echos to nantong

weaving silk in candlelight till dawn--

porcelain needle clicking against thumb thimble

diamond dot silver circle, sharp cloth

until lotus and peony and orchid bloomed from pain.

chrysanthemum fingertips, silk dyed and aged with time

ambition is a garden of

dreams planted in salt-soaked soil, of confucian teachings buried

between piano arpeggios and the 2 stringed strum of an erhu

golden medal, jade polished voice spewing ancient wisdom

smoothness until the tongue grows heavy with

copper tasting inheritance, of blood, salted.

cross the yangtze when dusk falls,

paper-thin hopes melting in nantong mist, transparent

huddle against fate and sense a spectral

memory that hugs the sampan, watching

mist clinging to shoulders like ghosts, claiming.

this is how we learn the value of survival.

roots crawl from my family’s feet, one

underneath every step but its iron and not

earth. anchor to the future, daughters lost to history—

great (great) grandma weaving her silk, my

mother with a phd in chemistry, and me

at the end, quicksilver and free.

construct bridges from fragmented memories, longer

than memory, search for belonging in every

teahouse and behind every courtyard wall. claim

something more than the fractured echoes of something

wild that persists beneath concrete and domesticity, past

my plastic trinkets, led lights and polyester clothes.

cranes circle overhead, carrying prayers skyward on paper wings,

silent witness to what we’ve become, what we’ve forgotten.

they were messengers to heaven not that long ago.