slogan of the Chinese Cultural Revolution 1966–76

Strange           
to think of you
Mother
cheeks bright
with the nuisance
of revolution
thin hands
rosy fingertips
levering yourself
onto the train
that would bring you
to Wuping
or did you go
by foot
dressed in flannels
and broadcloth
as one of your
future husbands
tells me
I can only
see you
in your favorite
dove-brown
wool suit
Jackie O. style
to the office
when pain
kept you
home we ate
bon-chon chicken
our last meal
before Booth
Memorial 
oh yes cancer
oh yes genetic
percentage
but you were warmly
dressed in Wuping

~

one hundred
fifty rural miles
west of your
native Xiamen
a mid-size city
I Googled today
fresh-faced
cyber cafes
bookshops
you and your
university
pals sent
as operators
of Mao’s
Great Leap Forward
to till soil
teach letters
but when I say
strange I mean
how you were like
the revolution
itself
always spoiling
for the next account
next man
next fight
when I say
strange I mean
how even as you
were dying
and I asked
what were
the happiest
of your days
and you
didn’t say
us I knew that
already
I didn’t mind
but you said
the revolution
nobody
says that

~

after you died
I remembered
Odysseus
and his bowl
of blood
his wrist
letting out
so he could speak
to his mother
three embraces
into air
but then
her voice
uttering
does it matter
in Wuping
what you loved
was the tunes
and unity
little care
why or how
you played violin
your friend guitar
and evenings
you all sang
until the sun
dwindled
candles kerosene
were too dear
to burn for
fervor alone
surely you were
cold those nights
on your cot
in the newly
built hut
and if you had
companionship
my father
doesn’t know
I forget that
you were
at most
twenty-two
I thought
I would rather
go down
and face those
three dogs
than hear you
say more

~

rosy fingers
is a phrase
I learned reading
D’Aulaires’ Book
of Greek Myths
my brother stole
Prometheus-
style from the
school library
the goddess
Eos would
wake the world
with rosy fingers
at six
I didn’t know
metaphor
that rosy fingers
meant morning rays
I imagined
her fingers as yours
touching gliding
my hair
in the recumbent
hills
most remote
meadow
of me
when I think
of happiness
I still think
of D’Aulaires’
lithographs
river gods rising
fleet-footed nymphs
the night-cool
pastoral
inside my body
a secret

~

did we
share this too
our bodies
houses
for our best
stories
did you
sing songs
of redistribution
while dreaming
of Anna Karenina’s
black ballgown
while you
worked the fields
of rice and yams
fields flooded
under a low-
burning sky
when I learned
though not
through you
you hid
handwritten
copies of
favorite chapters
Tolstoy
Wharton
Flaubert
all forbidden
under your pillow
on that cot
I felt so pleased

~

and then
guilt
for being
so pleased
good capitalist
maybe
it was
a downward-
plunging woman
with her crown
of dark curls
that gave you
hope
but for what
your future
would be us
and a near
lifetime
of new
powerlessness
well
you seemed happy
before you died
too happy
you were joining
those young corpses
with their
laudanum
drownings
leaps into
cruel
exquisite air
what makes me
sad is that
I’d read these
books only
after

~

should I say
you beat us
too
in the shower
in public
on the face
with boots
with a chair leg
chased Vicky
to cut her
awful hair
told us
get work
done
more tits
less chin
more eyes
less ears
but it’s
verging on
melodrama
nice people
don’t suspend
their
disbelief

~

Mother
I have
deformed you
primed much
and painted little
sat to write
and deceived myself
perhaps in the after
you can meet anyone
you can meet
the you
I’ve made
in this poem
you can judge
each other
from afar
then self-love
brings you close
laughter or snort
I don’t know
twin of my mother
don’t speak to me
anymore

~         

maybe you
were quelling
the latest uprising
that was us
babies
kicking children
unspeaking adults
without
the little red book
the task of
who to love
and how
how could
you know
what to do
I was last-born
like so many
last-born daughters
in China
Korea Vietnam
in Flushing
we’re raised
to be workhorses
well Mother
I’m working now

~

maybe
your long-gone
days were
happiest
because
while
you had 
the cold fields
and a song
you had
the cold fields
and a song