Solstice in Llasa
What more can you say
Nomad daughter of glaciers?
City has bleached the sun from your face
18 years old with a freckled nose
Hides of yak, barley, sandy wind
Knees stiff from scrubbing toilets
What dreams keep you alive
On the marble floor of Gangkar Hotel?
Drunken tourists and their nightingales
Money is the moon on Lhasa’s holy streets
In Beijing a storm drops 36 tons
Of dust upon the city of concrete
Nomad daughter from the Black River
What more can you say?
The wetland is becoming a desert
Home for rats, carcass of yaks
The salted tea you brought to my room
Yellow butter afloat from a distant factory
“It’s fake but tastes okay.
The real is gone, like snowcaps.”
Wind, breath, naked river beds
At dusk, a boy on motorcycle
Comes home with his last herd
Nomad daughter from the Sacred Lake
What dreams keep you going
In the glass cage of illusion?
Before the clouds
Cabs, trucks, mobs of fortune seekers
Behind the clouds
Patola Palace absent of its Buddha
Your ancestors are on the road
Nomad daughter from the Blue Treasure Plateau
Wooden gloves and padded knees
Long prostrations into the thin air
Their cry of never-perish ghosts
Calling you to keep the lamp burning, burning
And you shout to me across the street
“Sister, please find me a rich husband in America.”
Copyright © 2014 by Wang Ping. Reprinted from Split This Rock’s The Quarry: A Social Justice Poetry Database.