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Wai-Puo
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wai-puo shuffled
tiny feet
from the foyer to
the living room
clicked on the tv
brushes
steel black
hair
into stiff wings
outside
a burning heat
Chicago
in August
grandma buttoned her shirt
with arthritic fingers
and removed
her teeth
dropped them
in a glass of water
they bounced
like she did
from one child's home to the
next
Jing-Hua in Chicago
Sue-Hua in D.C.
Da Ding in
Cincinnati
Wei-Hua in San Francisco
Da-Aie and Da-Jo in Taipei
so far
from that baby girl
that she was in Shanghai
the
one who kicked the cloths
off of her bound feet
dove into the
marriage bed
of her husband
bore six skinny children
from
seven sickly pregnancies
children born to survive
every war
running
first from
the Japanese
then from
the
Communists
exiled to live
in Taiwan
where grandma
rolled out
dumpling dough
into thin skinned flaps
cupped
each square
in her palm
made every dumpling precious
another flower blooming
its weight anchored
in the center of
her hand
she'd smear its pocket
with meat
twist its top
closed
and repeat
until it was
enough to feed
six
children
one husband
one sister
one brother-in-law
and
eventually
herself
wai-puo stuffed bracelets and anklets
over my baby hands and feet
laced my young neck
in red thread
and pure gold
wai-puo saved my umbilical cord
and let go of
me, the grandchild
that language and migration
would steal from
her
it is this woman's skin that covers me
her cataract
eyes
that watch me from above |
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