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.

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?

When all summed her home was
immaculate,  like pearl polished
porcelain and her maple floors
smelled of good soap and wax;
between Sunday lunch  and
dessert, she would stroll
to the bathroom
to throw-up.