Another American
BY ZIYI YAN
America, you big fish, you blubber. Proper noun
wedged in a continent.
America, swimming west. Make way for America,
she is shimmying loose!
America, I should bring up the Romans now.
I should be Jonah
in the belly. At dawn I should leave the sea–
warm and spitting froth,
because we will all be saved. Rome fell,
once: the unimportant clerk writing I do not like
my work! When China fell
once, a poet bound himself to a large stone
and hurled it downstream. Days later, clumps of rice melt
into the river bed: a grieving gift.
In a Flushing low-rise,
another American writes
of sating the hungry fish, saving the poet’s body. In Athens,
Venus and her sisters pose for gameday,
waving a Tits out for the Boys! Flag
which I first saw as an American.
Across Big Sur, new foam swims into the sand like milk
in my cereal. That is my tribute,
America. I didn’t try. Again, my grandma brags
of her poet in 美国. She studies my forearms–
paws my marble calves as I pearl back
on your shore, beautiful America–
I fall for you over and over, like dynasties
or a word unstuck
from the cheek– your cheekbones in my face,
America. One after another,
your symbols race into the sea– the coastline infinitely long
if you look close enough–
I can never bring the poem back home. Over so many lifetimes,
I have tried knowing you
to the rock– the sand trickling down your stubborn
edge. America, how you were reborn
when my American sister sowed her gem collection
at the beach. There is no eye
in America– no poet getting the big picture right.
Don’t take it personally. My dad skins another big fish
for his American gem. Another century, I have not drowned.
America, I will not swallow tonight.
* 美国 means “America,” but translates literally to “beautiful country.”
Redecorating
BY ZIYI YAN
I live a small life. The cards are right here.
The streets are raw but I’ve been doing all I can:
cleaning up after sex, deleting confirmation emails.
I take out the trash for each new travel brochure: trash bag
in trash bag– give me something to toss.
I starve during the holidays, as an afterthought.
After spring cleaning, my room weighs twice as much.
I can’t count the time I’ve saved; I am not done
writing prefaces to birthday cards– I am not done learning.
How not to touch shoulders in the mezzanine,
how not to wait at the bus station. I come home again and again
like ink on the wrong side of a postcard–
I used to be good at writing. Now, a pot of sunflowers or a cut vegetable
can be a paradigm shift. Instead of language, setting.
I have not moved since I met you: a blade hovers
above the kitchen counter– the earth spins me toward it, yanks
the onions away. What have you been up to?
You have to sleep, have to use the bathroom. Need
to brush your hair sometimes. Have to check the air in your tires.
That’s how we left each other.
Land is a hyperobject. Time is a plane. Everything you say is bullshit.
Lately I’ve been exfoliating scabs, killing darlings. I search up parking lots
for us to kiss in; I schedule fights and draw maps of my living room.
In the elevator, I’ll stop trying to scream or look people in the eye:
babies, lovers, friends I’ve always hated. I used to be good at planning–
now we stab through the days, needle-like. A pot.
Sunbeams. Curtains that don’t fit. Instead of simile, theater:
we can’t decide if the bees are humming
or buzzing. In trying to de-tangle poems, I have gone bald:
every breeze an impossible convergence point.
I steam the air to no avail– the earth is not your shirt.
Nothing has changed, only we’ve run out of room to cry or fuck or breathe in.
We peel like onions, like paint. I have been loving you:
I have nothing to explain.