By ANNA ZHOU
Draped in the Moon Goddess’ waning light,
I write secret love letters:
to a motherland I’ve never felt the right to know
to warm bowls of bean curd flowers and soy milk,
so white and weightless and pure
I imagine Chang’e herself adorned in flowing robes
of rich jade amongst the stars.
At twilight, its streets swell
with swerving mazes of pastel mopeds, its skies burnt
orange with smog and the dying embers of ancient dragons.
My time is ever limited there,
as is my language:
“I missed you,”
“I’m full; yes, I had enough to eat—really”
Two jagged halves brushing past,
swathed in twirling ginkgo fans wound
from golden silk,
the ones Ma-ma loved as a girl.