新传统

Let it be known. We circled—
barefoot—the parking lot, searching
for our car, last seen by villagers to be ferrying
torsos across a river. No matter, the living do
what they know best. From this foreign shore
I now call street, I hand body parts to you
for wear: a father’s shoulder, a mother’s
back—the things we do for survival.
At home, everyone is missing a chest,
taken by a bullet tracing itself through
a new frontier, and I name it immigrant.
There, you wear your country’s skin well.
When the sun gives, you could hang it
alongside my wedding dress, but I am
a boy, and you looked into my face, bruised
with makeup, to remind me, so you don’t.
Though I am your son, it’s too easy to forget
how I ran from love, how the Chinese night
eats its simple men; how these streets
swallow cars whole. One thing is easy
to keep, your old language I use for poems
and pillow talk. Here’s one: the jade talismans
you brought over from the village have made
like a wishbone, and split itself home. Follow it,
but you can’t—your tires are slashed. You run,
but everywhere is made of streets, and everything
is slashed. Come back, we are in the parking lot
again, holding your son—stroking his cheek—
finding in his mouth the second half
of everything you’ve ever wanted.

 

^{The title is xīn chuántǒng, which means “new tradition” in Mandarin.}