THREE POEMS by VANESSA HU
what is a memory?
i can barely grasp onto
my dignity as the rivers run
my cloudy dreams,
whipped into frivolity.
i want to sleep, eyes pressed
to the membrane between
breath and earth, body peeled
open for rain and sun
to enter and bless. so
one day, when i have
no limbic notion,
if a sparrow grazes
my ear i can still
smile
smile
forgive
sing, once
upon an eon.
by now, i have
collaged metaphor
from newspaper
cuttings, too
many apples cherry
picked in the skins
of my puddle-dragged
skirt, all seed
and oxidation.
i don't know how i'd ever
paper-mache those lungs
into flesh-soft clay
or campfire tale
so they just blink on
my belly in
freckles of salt
and shell mothering
wrecks and homes
alight, flung to
palms and moons.
i can only trust dust to
become atom, linking
veins with clocks so even
when the coffee melts dry,
a quark can kiss a cheek
goodnight. and know
it was, will be, is
a maple leaf pressed
into a creased spine,
a brush stroking
bond and chemical
into dimension.
want
i want to paint a cheek with mountainous
cloud & sloping sky, blessing caverns
and speckling meadows with ocean.
i want to hold a palm with my two hands,
trace sinew and pillowy flesh and chart
trajectories where the seams converge.
i want to cradle a neck, fingertip
prickling static and oh-so soft—
butterfly on artery,
wings tucked to chest.
i want to tippy-toe and
sway in infinite loops:
stars steady,
gaze pulsing,
skin rippling in ribbons.
i want to stitch a thread and not disentangle,
i want to fly a kite and lose its tail.
i want the next blink to come,
i want to breathe out
i want
i want
i
want,
but
do i
want? or
is it wantonness
wantingness or
wantedness and
do i want
these things or
do i want someone
to want my wantingness,
want the scraps of wrapper and rawness
and parse margin cleaving stanzas:
wanting to sing this silly un-rhymingness and wantingness and
wanting, waiting,
wishing, wanting?
umbrella
rain skids off and collects
in a puddle around my bare toes.
soft, hardened skin presses into asphalt,
fingers slide on the handle. it slips,
slips down.
a sailboat too wobbly, too big,
lands in the pond at my feet.
clouds drizzle springs,
roses flower on cheekbones,
creeks quench my vision.
my hand opens for the curved handle,
closes around a bouquet.
pink tulips dance in my palms,
petals shed more quickly than rain.5
i clutch the forlorn stems,
what’s and if’s
crinkling their leaves.
the boat swings up to cover
my plasticked hair.
my spine uncurls, spins
towards clouds, a sunflower
drawn to the fringe of the sky.
ghost fingers caress, thaw
my clutch. footsteps
skim over tinkling puddle.
a breeze, chilly and sweet
smears salt on my chin.
my head swivels left,
searches
for nothing. tilts down,
gaze at the puddle at my feet.
infinity stares back.
flecks of grey, blurred
with steady drops of cloud.
so that's how it is.
my body unfurls again;
this time, buds adorned.
roots propel me forward,
toes tickled with melancholy
dripping
from the milky way.
Vanessa Hu is an avid latte-sipper, occasional ballroom dancer, and serendipitous writer. She studied Computer Science and Ethnicity, Migration, & Rights at Harvard University, and has been published in Doublespeak Translation Magazine, Babel Language Magazine, and The Wave Asian Arts Magazine. You can find her ruminations @vanessahu_ on Twitter and at vanessahu.squarespace.com.