april, 1906
two weeks ago, the unforgiving mouth of California
opened its jaw and consumed San Francisco whole, its
tongue of fire reducing Chinatown to its pale, yellow
bones, rats picking through the marrow for its
bricks and its water, but there are only so many things
we can swallow that we can never fish back out
so when parchment burns, its inked blood will never
run clean again. we crossed the bay to a city made of oak in
memory of the magpie bridge that spans the distance
between us and my family, and of this house made of papyrus
there came an opportunity birthed of entropy, so
we sent word of a dream to ge this morning
a dream that they call a paper child.
the cracked window of our cheap unit let the cold seep in
and when we contacted the landlord, he waved us aside because
he knows that business is reaped from desperation and hunger
but tomorrow morning my husband will return
to the laundromats, and I am familiar with a needle and thread
so we will make back what was burnt
once again and when my brother’s daughter arrives
on the shores of California, we will have a paper fan for
the summers so that we will not have to worry about
proprietors and ventilation, she will not have to worry
about fever and my husband’s hot temper, and there will always
be a place for her at the table once her sails blow in and they
deposit her at our doorstep with the water bill. i think of her
at this hour, of my paper daughter, my zhínǚ
who will flit across the ocean in an envelope stained
with watercolor hope, and we live on for the youth, my husband and I
who will carve a place for her out of the wood, & tonight
I will light paper for the golden city that we lost &
the daughter we will gain, who will survive for the
sake of her ancestors and pray at the foot of a bed
that will cull determination from daydreams &
always have a fan for her head and for her heart.
Visual Credit: Nancy My Tran, Staff Illustrator
