Poetry

Poetry
by
Amy Branch
 

GREEN OIL 

Hong Kong.  Here again in her veins, back 
to capture the elusive dragons 
I hunt to ink me, to reprint me.

I reach, but she slips through my fingers
like white rice or Mung beans. Adrift in 
a wake of charcoal caps, black pearl eyes,

their fiery tongues flicker gweilo -- ghost.
Lost -- I eat bird's nest soup at Kamboat. 
The spit of swallows from the mountains

yellows my skin Asian. I spit up 
buried child language in Mandarin. 
"Uncle," a jeweler in Chai Wan, 

laughs in Cantonese, says 'au' zou-la, 
and hands me a jade pendant, a green tear
wrapped in gold determination.

Trapped outside the stone walls
of an ancient culture, I root myself 
in lotus blossoms and bamboo slivers.
 
 

WAKING THE DRAGON

In our astrological diary, it is the year 
of the great dragon. The evening blows
tea leaves North to signal his return
and the rice fields ripple our demise.

But we are the dragon's children and we wait,
chanting as the Mongols skirt up the river Xiang.
As they thunder through each mountain pass, fury
brands their armored stalks and quarreling zinc swords.

In camps along the Great Wall, his bricked gray back,
we eat lonyen, the sleeping dragon's eyes, and drink 
sweetmilk from sugar cane in bamboo cups. 
Night oils our hair.  He stirs.  Beyond the clearing, 

torches burn and our jade bands gleam.  They promise 
us fortune, protect our souls, ward off evil. 
We wear our dragon jade and do not flinch
when he wakes, firing us red, then yellow with his breath.

Nearby the Bonsai weep.
 
 

STAGE NAME: ASIA

Some nights she consumes me, insists I go
away.  She doesn't like to be followed.
Independent, she says.  But I follow her
this time, want to know why I can't come.
I hide in her shadow to a place across town
The Roxy.  The bouncers recognize her 
with a nod, flash a smile, and open the door
to a dressing room.  Not even a real dressing room,
but a small storage space for props
and liquor.  The lights dangle
on extension cords and there are other girls there.
She finds an empty spot in front of the mirror,
colors lips burgundy, sparkles eyes,
extends black lashes, and darkens brows.
I watch as she slips on small black shorts
and a silver top.  One at a time she pulls
up knee socks, zips the inseam of leather boots,
asks Ronald for two tequila shots, 
salt and lime.  She sprays the body
with glitter from a can, lights a Camel,
but she doesn't really smoke.  It colors
the Cuervo Gold.  A girl whispers in ear,
checks to see if anybody is looking,
offers a hint of crystal.  She inhales
as I exhale to keep quiet.  A bass beat thumps
the walls and concrete floors.  Inside the lights flash
disco wild and I feel myself slipping.  She turns,
catches a glimpse.  Her stark black eyes wave,
lips part coyly as she drags me into the spotlight
with her, naked and suffocating, I cannot get away.

The night is her domain and she forbids me 
to eat during the day when she visits.  Perhaps 
she will not like what she finds 
when the body is hers again, when she wants it.
 
 

INCENSE TO THE LAUGHING BUDDHA 

When my mother first came to America, 
they teased her. She did not understand the joke, 
but the next time they laughed, she laughed.

Pretend, smile, 
open your mouth.
Happiness is easy.

I tell her my English lover studies English. 
She says a Chinese man who studies Chinese
is said to be angled and asks does his face have angles?

I imagine corners sharp as diamond points, 
porcelain shards, solemn and square
like Confucius. No laughter.

I did not understand
when my lover said he loved me
in his own language.
 

Pretend, smile, 
open your mouth.
Happiness seems easy.

She continues he should be human,
           Not imperfect or humane,
                      But have the ability to smile,
                      Fill a room without diamonds,
                      To draw laughter.
          Do you mean humorous? I ask
And she replies 
Yes, human.
 
 

IN HER SHADOW

The years carve their reflection into 
mother and daughter
as the steam slowly curls away.

            Have you grown?

Their left sides in line, 
She quietly places herself
behind in the clouded bathroom mirror.

She gathers 
her stomach, breath, even her thoughts
inward to appear smaller, delicate,

to slip on her mother's red and white sequin 
wedding dress

and still cannot hide in her silhouette
betrayed by the curve of a wider hip,
the slant of a longer rib, an entire arm,

a shoulder she can't starve off .

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