WINSHEN LIU

 

my friend posts a photo of her weekend and i have the same memory

 

from here, the sky is a glass of water, stitched
along its rim with late summer oaks. her son stands

half a thumbnail tall. head of black hair angled up,
arms out from his sides, his hands starred in wonder.

his dad arcs an arm toward the sky, pinning string
between his fingers as the invisible unspools. the same wind

floated my grandfather’s laugh, as the two of us, the only ones
on the field, tugged a flying fish across the upturned lake.

Can you love someone if you don’t know their birthday

 

My grandfather only ever called us
by our nicknames. My cousins
were Autumn Sky and Magnesium
Beauty. I was Warmth of the Morning Sun.

We knew not to play during the news
and his naps, but in the small window
when we could bumble sol-mi-mi’s, did we echo
our mothers, on the same out-of-tune keys?

One night, as our family clinked East Wind
against Fortune, he surprised us with forbidden
treats at a forbidden hour: a dozen streetcorner baos.
One per person, except, counting now, we were thirteen—

 

 

 

 

 

I can still hear the gulp of his glasses
case closing and his Sichuan curl
when he gave his catchphrase.

‘It’s okay’ is what I say to my dog
when she barks at the keys charging
back to their locks down the hall.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Winshen Liu is from the United States. Her poems have appeared in BRINK, Cincinnati Review, The Malahat Review, Poetry Ireland Review, and The Rumpus, among others. She is a 2024 de Groot Foundation Courage to Write grantee and an MFA candidate at the University of Mississippi, where she won the 2024 Bondurant Prize in Poetry. You can follow her work at winshenliu.com.

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