icarus—
curiosity is a fire,
roaring inside your ribcage.
you wonder, and you want,
and the tips of your fingers
stretch themselves
towards the sun—
warm, then hot,
then scorching,
and finally, you plummet.
icarus—
they call you a tragedy,
but tell me,
did your blood not run
liquid gold,
in that moment
the sun’s heat
embraced you?
didn’t the touch
of pure, pure opulence
leave stardust
and embers
embedded in
your skin,
a heavenly dust
adorning your burns?
icarus—
in the sky, as you
dive towards earth,
you glimmer
like glory.
icarus—
charred angel,
did you not feel divine
in the seconds before
you fell?
icarus—
wasn’t the warmth
worth what followed?

i’m not good at writing happy poems.
my hands are clumsy and so,
so scared—see, joy is
a vast foreign light,
spreading warmth through
fingertips, skeletons, souls.
and when, dear sky,
was the last time i saw
the dawn?
even to close my eyes
and ride on waves of slumber
is a risk
i fear to take—for what if
when i wake,
the sun and all his lullabies
are gone?
no,
i can’t take
another year in the dark.
and if i do,
if i do sleep,
or rest
or trust
or hope—
please, poem
(although messy,
crumbling,
soft),
keep the sun
with me.

the roots of my people
are winding, twisting,
intricate art in themselves.
our skin—
a million shades of
rain-soaked and sun-kissed.
our bodies meld with
our bamboo, stretching
our fingers
endlessly upwards—
our plum blossoms,
resilient through sheets of snow—
our willows,
soft and airy,
swaying in perfect rhythm
with the wind our land breathes.
we are born of nature—
our voices sharp and nimble;
oxygen leaves our lungs
and carves peaks in the sky,
pierces clouds like
the huangshan—
we move
like no other blood,
fast and flying,
fleet-footed,
ever-flowing.
the roots of my people
are painted in
calligraphy pens and ink,
and it runs through
each of us,
as we stand
tall, serene,
in symbolic tradition,
just like our trees.

i grew
from flowers.
fabric-softener petals
and twirling ivy vines
and quiet dandelions
and ever-sleeping blossoms.
i grew
from oceans.
calmly tossing water
and silent white sand
and slowly-floating seashells.
i grew
from forests.
serene unmoving trees
and soundlessly-swaying grass
and sedated sunlight beams.
i grew
from skies.
silent shooting stars
and twinkling constellations
and ever-so-slightly waning moons.
i grew
from quiet movement
i grew
from sleepy sounds
i grew
from hushed breaths.