the child
Let me sing like a ghost, boiled oranges humming into the room as burnt offering and the sea rises to meet the steam in the kitchen, as new year and death and the mountain's rebirth comes bursting, the fanned fragrance of the men from the mines along the spine and organs of Jiu-fen, the women counting the space between the blue bloom firecrackers set off to count the moments between widowhood and the appearance of redemption. Let the train crackle, let the space sway against the northern coast waves. Kite, cart, bone-glass and sea.
a broken place adrift in the hovering of balls of green glass holding up fishermen’s nets
squid, crab, seaweed, memory hanging like fruit on the decks of the boatyard
this child, this child
Once he was small as a thump print on a cup
Once he stood before smudged shadow and smiled, unafraid
Once he was a child the size of a penny overlooked
Once he ran through rags of love bickering with life and loss in Taiwan
now songing
let me fold you with cloth and grassblade underneath the milky sunlight as into song.
