I started this poem with the intention of writing a sonnet which seemed appropriate for the subject matter. However, it outgrew itself and became iambic pentameter quatrains.
Snow Flower paints our secret words with grace-
ful strokes, mosquito-like, along the fan’s
silk ribs. Though seldom meeting face-to-face
we dare exchange nu shu encoded plans.
As laotongs, born in the year of horse,
we share our dreams and soothe each other’s fears;
eight characters alike, our fates on course
to be ‘old sames,’ devoted through the years.
My monkey mother binds my feet with love.
She soaks long strips of silk in herbs and blood
then snaps my baby toes and wraps and shoves
them toward my heels. Five inches will be good.
Upstairs with Aunt and Winter Moon, I pin
my hair and sew, allow my feet to heal.
Protected from the outer realm of men,
we women shelter passions that we feel.
My laotong and I succeed. We sway
on perfect golden lilies, proud and glad.
We know our mincing chánzú lotus gait
in tiny shoes with bows will drive men mad.
Posted by Vivian on April 28, 2008
Tags: Uncategorized
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