POETRY

My mother is a cold flame;

My mother is a flame from the bottom of the sea;

My mother is a flame of pure white lily of the valley,

A broken miner light my mother is,

A flame of clay.

My mother lies lower than death;

My mother walks an extra length beyond the end;

My mother fails to find her own flame;

My mother gave birth to me,

Like a big flame,

Shivers, isolated on a branch.

My mother burned crosses the threshing ground of a tyrant.

My mother is flame of hair;

Flame of clothes, flame of the crystal sound of ankles;

Flame of smile with eyes tightly closed;

Flame of bones delicate like birds;

Flame of transparent finger nails, skin and fine collar bones;

My mother filters down a wicker basket like circles;

From the hollow of a pure silver ring, from a wedding carpet of tongues;

Filters down holy grail formed by both hands, a secret auricle;

Filters down the chamber of a furnace of black grills.

I push her lost grace with my own hands,

In the heavy, dark, iron carriage,

Into the blazing fire.

I watch her sleeves blown full with flames;

She is charging, holding the shield of her knees;

Flames rise and puff from every leak between the bones,

Like a furious baby late for birth.

I see my mother climbing the flames;

Steep path, leaving behind her countless selves.

My mother is burgundy cello bent and stiff;

My mother is canoe of cedar;

Is a memory-less young girl,

Rippling in her forefather’s sky.

….

(Self-Translation from CHINESE)

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