A Free Life

Suddenly he saw his mother's ugly face after seeing her smile for thirty years.

Suddenly he heard his mother's monstrous voice, having remembered all her lullabies.

Suddenly he found his mother's secret cookhouse stocked with human flesh and blood.

For the first time he tasted tears of rage and hated the nickname she called him.

He soon left for a distant place, where he has lived secluded.

When I grew up I was given the contract itself.

In it was the map of a whole country,

there was no mention of money or property,

but it guaranteed me a happy future.

I knew nobody merited my envy

and nothing else could make me succeed.

I took my contract to another land,

where I showed it at an international bank.

People cringed and whispered.

A large man burped and said to me,

"Sir, this doesn't mean anything."

Choking back tears, I muttered, "Thank you."

You won't be able to go back.

Look, the door has closed behind you.

Like others, you too are expendable to

a country never short of citizens.

You will toss in sleepless nights,

confused, homesick, and weeping in silence.

Indeed, loyalty is a ruse

if only one side intends to be loyal.

You will have no choice but to join the refugees

and change your passport.

Eventually you will learn:

your country is where you raise your children,

your homeland is where you build your home.

I pity those who love security and unity.

They're content to live in cellars where

food and drinks are provided for them.

Their lungs are unused to fresh air

and their eyes bleary in sunlight.

They believe the worst life

is better than a timely death.

Their heaven is a banquet table.

Their salvation depends on a powerful man.

In the late afternoon a chorus of birds drifts

and sways a boat brimming with hopes,

forgotten but still floating in the bay.

If your heart is full of longing for

a distant trip, it's time to go.

You must set out alone-

expect no company but stars.

If you want to sing, sing clearly.

Let grief embolden your song.

Alone I stood in the rain, crooning

to the wind, and let my songs

be carried off by the wings

that still cleaved the hazy evening.

I saw my words fall on a mountainside

where trees and grass were dying.

Now and again

your little gate would wave

as if to say "Go away."

How I would like to be a bird

kept in your cage of love. You called me Sparrow but preferred

an eagle or a dove.

You shooed me off your cozy eaves and made me use my wings.

How I cried for fear, for relief. You merely said "Poor thing."

Across oceans and continents I've traveled, wrestling winds.

My heart, homesick, often regrets my strong and spacious wings.

I've lost my sparrow's melody and cannot find your house.

Many times you must have seen me as one born in the clouds.

Another rain will burst them- full of teeth, they will grin through the tiny leaves

that used to conceal their cheeks. I'll take a photo of my pomegranates for you, the only person

I care to show. Like others

you craved the fruit

so much, you overlooked

the crimson blossoms wounded by worms and winds. You could not imagine

some of them would swell

into such heavy pride.

I can tell you, they are sour.

"All aboard!" cried the train attendant.

My father was holding my three-year-old son

to watch me leaving for another continent.

"Good-bye, Taotao." I waved, but my child was silent staring at me with a sullen face,

his tears trickling down.

If only I could have brought him along!

The wheels hissed, about

to grind. "No good-bye,"

he cried finally, "no good-bye, Mama."

I forced a smile, then climbed

the ladder, stabbed by pain.

The village platform began to fall away,

blurred, and disappeared in the plain.

Since then his tears, mingled with mine, have often soaked my bad dreams, although he did join me in '89.

I swear I'll never say good-bye

to my son again, not until

he graduates from Parkview High.

Mama, do you remember the donkey

who collapsed on the street that afternoon?

And the overturned cart, its wheel still moving,

mussels and clams scattered in heaps all around? He lay in a ditch, his belly sweating, heaving, while blood flowed from his mouth.

The old one-eyed driver was kicking him

and yelling, "Get up, you beast!"

Only a long ear twitched, as if to say "I'm trying."

I swear, he was too tired to get on his feet. Unlike a horse playing sick, he was too weak to pretend.

Mama, I can still see that mountain of seafood, the driver standing on it and cracking his whip.

All night long I hear my doves cooing to tell me there's a snowstorm gathering. Their feathers, once intensely white, are gray and tattered, though the whistles I tied to them eleven years ago still scatter notes of brass when they fly.

They tremble a little from cold.

Their short bills having lost the jadelike translucency

are more fragile than before.

Who feeds them now?

Under whose eaves is their cote?

Do they still go to the aspen grove to look for worms?

Do the cats still attack them and steal their young?

Time and again they seem to cry, "Nan, Nan, come and take us away." They make my morning blue, bluer than a freezing dusk.

All day long I see the shadows of their wings flitting about- through my lawn, along the asphalt, across the walls of the dining hall, on the kitchen floor, around my wok…

As the groundhog enters our yard

all the noise ceases in our house.

I dare not raise my voice

to tell my family in the kitchen

that we have a little visitor,

a portly guy in a brown coat.

If he hears any sound in here

he'll run away, rocking his ample rump.

He stands up on his hind feet,

clasps his hands below his ursine face,

and looks right then left as if to make sure

his shadow hasn't followed him.

Soon he roams the grass casually,

sampling our clover and alfalfa,

catching an insect or snail.

He never jumps like his cousin the squirrel.

How can I tell him he's always welcome?

A humble guest, he has no idea

we celebrate a day in his name.

I keep my face back from the window

so he can enjoy a quiet meal,

or even a sunbath as

he often does back home.

Whenever he's here

my winter shrinks, green-faced.

Oh, even a god dies alone.

I won't complain or sob,

although my heart is sore,

gripped by numbing sleep.

I must remain mute like an earthworm

and dense like a tree.

If only I could rise and swim again,

again commanding my clan-

ka, keck, quack.

Oh, how can I thank the Wus enough?

They cut the lines and dislodged the hooks.

They cleaned the maggots off my wounds

and even gave me a pill before

they put me back into the lake.

Now I'm going to rejoin my tribe

and tackle their new chief.

First they should know I'm still alive-

ka, keck, quack.

I dream of becoming an idle Nan, in whose calendar all days are blank. Don't blame me if I am such a man

who goes to ball games as a major fan

and whose job is to draw cash from the bank.

I dream of becoming an idle Nan.

Scientists, artists, statesmen do what they can, but I would have my good fortune to thank. Don't scold me if I am such a man.

Trouble will always come if you have a plan

to attack front and flank.

I dream of becoming an idle Nan –

in the morning I'll eat omelet with ham; if it's fine, I will roam the riverbank. Don't pinch me if I am such a man!

Time will crush everything into one span. Why strive for money, power, fame, and rank? I dream of becoming an idle Nan. Don't kill me if I am such a man!

Again I'm back at square one, where every street says "Dead End." I thought my daughter, unborn yet, would show me an outlet.

Again I'm back at square one

to face an empty yard where a house once stood.

My child was a vision I lost myself in.

If only I had unlearned selfish parenthood.

Again I'm back at square one, holding a little casket I cannot inter. My child died before she grew a lung. If only I knew where they dumped her.

Again I'm back at square one,

where a man has to restart alone.

Let me unsee my daughter's twinkling pulse

so I can search my soul for a milestone.

I had my baby with me again last night.

She curled up at my side,

saying, "Mommy, your bed is so nice.

It's cold out there,

I'm so scared."

"Don't be, my child." I patted her silky hair.

She told me,

"I won't wet your bed, Mommy." I said, "Don't be silly- you're not big enough to pee."

I woke to find her tiny coffin against my cheek, still stuffed with her little quilt and mattress. Oh if only I could hold her again inside me.

Again I saw my baby this morning. She was on the deck, toddling. Now and then she peeked in through the glass door, prattling.

Under his pencil a land is emerging. He says, "I'm making a country."

In no time it blooms into colors.

A blue bay opens like a horseshoe on

the shoulder of a glacier.

Below, a chain of mountains zigzags,

greened with rain forests.

Farther down he places mines:

aluminum, silver, copper, titanium,

iron, gold, uranium, tungsten, zinc.

Two oil fields beside branching rivers

are kept apart by a sierra called Mount Funfun.

In the south a plain stretches

into vast fertile land, where

he crayons farms that yield oranges,

potatoes, apples, strawberries,

wheat, broccoli, cherries, zucchini,

poultry, beef, mutton, cheese.

(There's no fishery

because he hates seafood.)

On the same map he draws a chart-

railroads crisscross the landscape;

highways, pipelines, canals

entwine; sea lanes curve

into the ocean, airports

raise a web of skyways.

He imposes five time zones.

For a child a country is a place unmarked by missiles

and fleets. He doesn't know

how to run it with the power

to issue visas and secret orders

and to rattle nuclear bombs like slingshots.

was to be free of responsibility,

to be born the youngest in her family,

pampered by her parents and humored

by big brothers and sisters,

and later to marry a man of mild temper

who would worry alone about money,

business, household duties, the authorities.

But born the oldest child,

she had to tend her siblings,

cut grass for ducks and geese,

gather firewood in the valley,

and walk miles to shop in the villages.

She'd cook supper

if patients delayed her mother.

Like many women of her generation

she cannot recall a happy episode

in her childhood. Yet she's resolved

to give her children a loving home

so that they won't be bowled over

if someone whispers to them "I love you."

My parents have forgotten that I wear a phone

as a custodian at the hospital…

to get the call when a toilet needs cleaning.

All your sufferings are imaginary,

all your losses not worth mentioning

if you keep in mind what you used to see-

peasants eating husks and tree leaves in the spring,

workers feasting their bosses to get a raise,

police rounding up the villagers who refuse to relocate,

women getting sterilized after their firstborn,

newlyweds setting up house in cattle sheds,

worshippers arrested and forced to live

on rotted food if they do not repent-

by comparison, all your misfortunes are imaginary.

Here in America you can speak and shout,

though you have to find your voice and the right ears.

You can sell your time for honest bread,

you can eat leftovers while dreaming

of getting rich and strong,

you can lament your losses with abandon,

if not to an audience, to your children,

you can learn to borrow and get used

to living in the shadow of debt…

Still, whatever grieves you has happened

to others, to those from Ireland,

Africa, Italy, Scandinavia, the Caribbean.

Your hardship is just commonplace,

a fortune many are dying to seize.

Immigrant Dreams

She too sells her hours in America.

Her dream has evolved into a house

on two acres of land with a pool.

She once dreamed of becoming a diva

or movie star or a painter

who specialized in fish and bamboo.

But she gave up art school

and came here to expand her selfhood.

At least that's what she planned to do.

He didn't know that at heart

she was a mother and wife,

a woman who would love burgers and fries.

Indeed, dollars can equalize most lives.

If only he were twenty again

or could stop patching his dream

with diffident feet and rhymes.