where to let time fly. is the night still weighing on the day.
school closed. your teachers jumped on and off stage like monkeys on a hot tin roof. hands banded behind their backs, they were kneeling down before a crowd that circled the school auditorium. a photo of the sick old great man was hanging high in full red, which they could not see and were not allowed to glimpse. you did not see the four men with spread legs and hands behind their backs. bats dangled on every high beam in every household. wet cloth upon which the sisters dried their hands slowly dried and faded through the opening and closing of a squeaking door. what does the mind want to see. what goes through one ear and runs chills down the spine. what is shaking in the far square in full winter. shoes were worn. soles were worn through. school children stretched arms to paste posters full of characters that they did not recognize. there were singings, school children in uniform, children shuffling in adult shoes, children with glasses confiscated from their teachers sliding down their little noses. you were not there. something hardened in the wind as winterberry stiffened after shaking off fruits and school children. you were not there.
what comes out of order. what comes out of chaos.
no street wanderings, you were not allowed to attend school full time. time losing its track as school children jumped on and off stage. you looked down and fixed shoelaces. in an empty courtyard behind walls of characters, your teachers knelt in mud in rain in the sun in the night and years that they lost their names.
what is there to teach. who is there to whom
cloth circled on a higher beam. then a neck. hairline ran across forehead white and clean.
who bides time in brittle words. who says what is what.
you grabbed pile after pile of shoelaces that you were assigned to wrap. plastic was rare. you hit with a small hammer on a wedge to bend thin aluminum chips around loose cotton ends. in the tick and tack of aluminum against iron under the orange lamplight by the table in the living room, the world in your eyes was turning into a night that you could not see. you missed the cry of people stretching their hands into a sky that was pushed farther and farther away. a city fell through the earth. you were not there.
is the quake of the earth shaking your growing soul. are you looking after heaven.
house without heat. house without children. house emptied into streets and streets of people who lined up by a full square in the middle of a winter day. who was wearing white flowers. who was sobbing on a day devoid of a night. a car passed, muffled in black. no snow. skins were flaking on dry wind. a full street clogged with white breath. no rain. you ran for the door. over the threshold, people were walking. arm in arm, hand in hand. heads over lowered heads, they were not watching who was watching ahead of them. the stove was left on. a lid shook off steam that was wiggling above the kettle. the bat shot against the window leaving the yellowed cloth flapping aimlessly. you held onto the door frame. in pieces you heard of a handsome old man. he was there before you were there. he was still there. on the avenue of eternal peace, people were there in black, bleached by grief.
is night leaving you alone.
you were not there. before a square the handsome old man stood behind the sick old great man. they were in a line, warlords after a long march. a flag flapped from northern land to southern land, a new republic stood on its feet. another republic across the strait at the foot of the ali mountains. as you moved from the kitchen bench to the grand bedroom, the warlords were disappearing. in barred and wired rooms. under house arrest in the new capital. on a long road to the plateau where the earth cracked. when eldest sister moved out, you were there. when the niece sucked milk you were denied of, you were there. you crawled in soot that you saw for the first time. for the first time, they were all crying. birdless sky.
where to sit in the day. where to take root.
you were left alone in the living room fixing shoelace ends. sister after sister walked out of the front door. the midwife came no more. everybody held a red book in the drawer and a white book to the district clinic. behind a curtain, the doctor sat and talked to the patient, while others waited and listened to what the doctor had to say and then looked curiously as the doctor lifted the curtain to let the patient out. they circled around the curtain that separated a corner from the room. the patient would lower head and hasten steps out of the room. some forgot to pick up their medication. grandma lost her part time job. people still came to her when they had a little cough or an ache somewhere in the back. she refused them as she refused to mention the river, the long walk, the city and her parents. they were behind the light, she turned her back to them in her thoughts and ran for the cloth hanging in the kitchen. the cloth shrank after many washes. water from the tap hardened it. it was hard water, grandma said. nothing shrank from water from the well which was now sealed. cement turned lighter and blended into a moss of greens.
what wobbles in the mind. what still reflects light.
on the same table you fixed shoelaces, grandma quit performing surgery on neighbors and their distant relatives. it was not a long time. she learned her trade from her surgeon father who made a name who cared for higher officials in the now defunct central government, where grandpa met her father. grandpa held the door for him as he walked in for an emergency. grandpa held the door for him as he walked out with sweat dripping off his forehead. then there was noise. then there was burning. then everybody followed his or her nose. then a long walk out of the city. when you saw the cloth at the bottom of the trunk that grandma hid under the bed, you knew.
what burns under ruins. what turns the eyes to the light.
the bat dangled as you brushed past the yellowed cloth hanging on the higher beam. rice steam pushed against the lid and wiggled through uneven edge.
what bears light in your mind. what do you see.
for the second mile you walked instead of taking the bus. grandpa was waiting for you by the factory gate. neither of you had a watch. he was smiling and stood stiff in the light wind that was brushing his frayed cuff. a broad smile and a bag of white shoelaces, whose metal ends sparkled in sunlight. unlike the sisters, you never had to bring back some of the shoelaces which fell short of the quality standard. on the table, the clank of metal hitting on metal was the rhythm of your hands.
where are your hands taking you.
you never said a word. grandpa stuffed some money into your hands by the factory gate. his hand wrapped around your hand, then the two hands fisted together.
streets no longer empty. houses with briquettes burning, water boiling on the stove. it was not a different season. sweet olive flowered from mainland to island. people made olive cakes and jams. when the winter solstice brought the longest night of the year, you drank sweet olive scented wine. on that day, grandpa brought the family ration ticket to the wine factory and bought half a gallon of sweet wine. grandma heated the wine in the kettle on the stove, then poured the sisters each a glass. the younger sisters had to share a glass. it was the only time grandma would let everybody in the house use glasses not chipped on the edge. respect for the ghosts. grandma was not religious but she believed that if she showed enough respect on the birthday of ghosts, they might bring her son back to her. she wanted a boy child. the parents and sisters around the small table in the living room. when the sweet olive smell burst through the uneven edge of the kettle, the sisters stuck out their tongues and licked the cold air. so sweet and strange. everybody had wine flushes on their faces, briquettes were crackling in the stove. around the table, the house looked bright. winterberry flashed some red light shattered by the dangling bulb in the kitchen. wind was picking up. so quiet and strange. heat from the wine crawled slowly up the spine. the sisters giggled and the parents giggled with them. heat from the wine hit the back of the head, you lost your mind in a neatly tucked quilt. the lacquered window squeaked from rusted hinges, grandma left it unlocked for the night.
how long lasts a family without a boy child. how long the longest night.
the son never came back as you waited on the kitchen bench. pants brushing past the threshold. the bat flew back to the higher beam and blinked its small lids. the stove was lit, rice bag opened. light screaming in the bag. mice stepped deeper and plunged headlong where heads and bodies could be buried without being noticed. the sisters were not there to notice the mice. grandma scooped a handful of rice without counting and poured the rice into a boiling pot. salt was not added. when the parents and sisters stood in a circle by the stove, there was sweat glistening on their foreheads. they were out of breath and heard your cough tapping on the white cotton. by the time cotton turned yellow and the new cloth hung on the higher beam, you moved.
is waking closer to being alive. is the first sound of a child closer to heaven.
back and forth over the threshold, you leaned against the door, little hands clutched on the edge of an oversized coat. hands pulled out threads that were popping along the edge. thrown in the air, the cotton wiggled and floated on wind. you jumped frantically without knowing that awkwardly tucked oversized pants fell down on the toes. you heard grandma after you. you ran, face into cotton, you stood and closed eyes.
what to see before a world before you. what to say to a world after you.
in the clank of the small hammer, you buried hands amidst pile after pile of shoelaces. occasionally you looked toward the threshold as if you saw as if you stood there and you saw. it seemed such a long time. the lacquered window in the kitchen forever locked. spiders weaved around the four corners that darkened the occasional light that cracked under the window. no singing from the other side of the window. birdless courtyard, the well sealed, winterberry held tight against brutal winds from the north, the country on the north border pulled out a group of foreign men with glasses on their noses. they went home. grandma went to the textile factory where grandpa worked. the sisters left you home to keep house. the threshold seemed so far that you could not touch it in the mind. in the mind, you were walled in without a threshold. back in the mind, you stood in a courtyard without lids opened to see.
what to believe or what to see. where to go where to go.
you knew it when the winterberry bloomed red in the courtyard. you knew it when the jar choi turned crispy in the vat. there was light through the cotton bandage. there was your hand on the door on the table on the hinge on the lacquered window. they were leading you, hands so straight and strange in the air.
what is there to touch. is a hand the beginning of longing.
as you took off the yellowed cotton bandage, old ideas, old culture, old customs, old habits were long gone. a white cloth hung on the higher beam. kettle replaced. a thick pile of newspapers was burned in a blackened bowl. the parents took out the red book from the drawer and put it in the middle of the table. when they ate at the table, grandpa would put the red book in his chest pocket. visitors from the neighborhood committee, they wore a bright red cloth wrapped around their higher left arms. before you were about to point to the red cloth, grandma elbowed your hands away. the weather seemed heavy with people in black and navy blue in the streets. waxed paper umbrellas were replaced by cloth umbrellas in the rain. the white book was left in the drawer and grandma carried again a child. grandpa was happy. the sisters took turns to put their ears close to her belly button. they giggled at the movement in the belly. grandma lightly hit their heads with her knuckles as she told the sisters not to get close to the boys in the street. if they got too close, something would move in their bellies. the sisters put their hands on their bellies and rushed to the kitchen for some hot water to gulp down their worry. the classes at school were mixed. all the sisters had a boy desk mate. from that day on, they chalked a white line on the desk, which neither could cross. there were fights, their elbows their sharpest weapon. no cry was heard as the teacher buried his glasses in a book he read out loud while circling his head around his neck at the podium. then the boys crossed the border into a peninsula where another border was crossed. then the teacher fell on his knees. who was looking without glasses. who was hanging onto a word. the teacher never lifted his head again. again the neighborhood committee grew and a line of red cloth marched back and forth in the street. then the wall was painted bright red. then black characters were crossed in red. this time you did not miss. leaning by the door, you saw.
who gives the world words. who marches out through the window.
over the threshold you saw white characters on walls newly painted red. dirty greens and old mosses were scraped clean from cracks. school children carried ladders. school children brought brushes. children your age, they were driving their teachers to the marketplace. black characters smeared on the placard the teachers wore around their necks. they never lifted their heads again. you saw them march away. your voice so small and strange. calling their names. calling name after name. they never turned around.
whose eyelids flip for horror. what abyss lies before you after you.
shoelaces no long fixed with metal ends. grandpa took the hammer from you. sitting on the old bench by the table, you waited in the clack of metal upon metal in the mind. some men and women from the neighborhood committee came. you heard their pants brushing past the threshold and you tried on yellowed blindfolds again. metal brushing past metal. the city in flame, so was the courtyard, black furnace in the middle of the house. metal left to burn, pots left on the stove. you did not see. there was a rush over thresholds. there was a rush to burn and melt. red slogans were flying on white placards, flowers flapped in energized hands. the sick old great man waved his hand on a tower in a square that you never saw. school children in uniforms gone on trains. you were left with blindfolds. winterberry withered in black heat, pots thrown in the fire, fire in eyes in faces, the old bench squeaked violently. mice gnawing rice bags, muskrats chewing on rotting bench legs. grandma pulled your hand out of the house to eat. they were marching, people on their way to eat. small streams of water leaked from cracks of the sealed well and gathered around the black furnace and then sizzled into thin air. you had your first period.
who marches ahead with blindfolds on. who shuts eyes for happiness.
no kettle on the stove. no hot water in the sack on your belly. you moaned lightly. thick liquids oozed from between legs, you felt with your hands and licked, which tasted remotely fish. thick liquids pumped in the heart, your moaning covered breathing. wrapped in a cotton quilt you lay in bed waiting for the night to sink.
when is it safe to walk again.
light bulb dangled violently in the night kitchen. grandpa took the old bench from the living room and moved it under the bulb. the bench squeaked as grandpa lifted his legs on both ends of the bench. grandpa was shaking as the bat flew down from the higher beam toward him, mottling the electric light on his face. wind picking up, humming through window holes. hinges squeaked from lack of oil on the lacquered window. so quiet and strange. step, step, someone was walking. step, step, he heard the blood circulating around his heart. night sweat. small streams dropped in the well ruffled by the whistling berry branches. as the bulb was taken from the socket, as someone hastened steps through the living room to the kitchen, grandpa lost balance and grabbed with stiffened fingers onto the cloth hanging on the higher beam. tumbling still in the dim night light. light bulb cords dangled violently from the high ceiling. wrapped in cotton cloth, grandpa grabbed with loosened hands. the grand bedroom was lit then the living room. you woke, blood turned thick on cotton underwear. on all fours, he crawled toward the stove. on and on and paused, out of breath, out of life, wrapped in cotton, he lay in the soot waiting for the night to sink.
is the ghost still part of the family. are the dead still eating in the kitchen.
no shoelaces on the table in the living room where you sat for hours and days. over the threshold, white characters on red paint slowly peeled off during a year of draught. no streams leaked from the well. winterberry bush burnt by the black furnace. no fire. your days outside the house. the house without heat. there was half a bag of rice where the newspapers used to pile up. the stove unlit. no pot or pan to cook the last batch of rice. they were in their rooms, the sisters and parents. in the kitchen the bat dangled upside down on the higher beam. no wind. the yellowed cloth hardened and shrank and bent stiffly. little light from the window holes. the lacquered window squeaked and burst squeaking. school children gone on trains, boy children jumped up and down on the stage in the school auditorium. a crowd gathered and went away. a flat stomach scratching on the spine. who was there to sing a red red song. the sun behind grim clouds, clogged sky, no rain, cracked skin, little salt. they were looking, crowds counted fingers and marked on tree bark. school children were not returning. some great men went in barred and wired rooms. some went to the plateau where the earth cracked, husks without wheat seeds. this moment, you did not miss. there was nothing to pawn for a household. there was nowhere to pawn for a palm of rice or salt. digging until a tree fell on another tree and left to rot. the roots were taken in the mouth, leaves flushed down with stone. the burnt winterberry, the felled trees, the bat squeaked on the higher beam and squeaked as dawn ate night as intestines shriveled into eternal hibernation. no one moved. loose wood threads on the threshold. belly waking you for another hour.
when to eat when to speak.
is the night still holding onto the day.
Dong LI has recently published his debut poetry collection THE ORANGE TREE (UP Chicago, 2023). He currently reads Eliot Weinberger's THE LIFE OF TU FU, Anne Weber's BANNMEILEN and Cécile Wajsbrot's NEVERMORE.
