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letter to a drowned poet by Jieyan Wang

November 21, 2021 at 1:59 pm

 

Qu Yuan (340-278 BCE): an ancient

Chinese poet, drowned himself in the Miluo 

River after the capture of his country’s capital.

in summer, your country falls & you’re left

with nothing but koi fish & sunlit insomnia

miluo: the quietest tributary, the off-cut you

cast yourself into, ripples expanding into rhymes

 

one day you wake & find yourself in the

kingdom of sons. the sons tell you instead of names

we count people by the rice grains we’ve swallowed. eat

as little as you can. your body is already defined

by water. a mother, not yours, calls i’m going to sing

for your slow breaths. reply yes even though there’s

no question mark. your body: it’s always bluing

 

begin with: i greet sorrow & its unopened flower bud

a boat, creaking with dreamlessness, cuts the current

end with: i slip away with my heart in between my fingers

 

exiled parts of my body

my last name dwells in my throat. 汪, meaning

a lot of water. enough to drown myself with

myself. we’re cold my body says to me far too cold.

 

*

the hairs behind my ears are always raised.

they are waiting for a flower petal. what falls

& never forgets. belonging lives in soft pink.

 

*

the distance between china & america lies in

the constellations & what counts them the hand writes

one: you were born where your ancestors weren’t.

*

 

目: two slashes through a box, chinese for eye.

i almost understand it: eyelids half-closed like

a sentence. the pupil: it expands into a period.

 

*

if you spread your arms my mother says the wind

will close its long-winded lips around you. no wonder

i can’t fly. girl is featherless even with the long l.

 

*

insomnia brushes against my shoulders. i hug it

so it twitches like a child who believes she will

live forever. it hushes into the base of my neck.

 

*

add a dot on top of 目to get self. 自: an eye

with a single lash measuring me. i see you

so i can open your loneliness. let me 飞飞飞.

 

*

where does water go? it tends towards ocean,

where salt is the mother of every question. let’s go to

where you’ll dissolve my body murmurs, already blurring.

 

 

Jieyan Wang is a first-year college student at Harvard University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Pleiades, Passages North, Baltimore Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, and elsewhere. She is also a reader for The Adroit Journal.

 

Jieyan Wang

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