they found it four days after the march, a blue-lipped bulbous thing inside her head, playing euphoria light and thin as mountain air the month before spring.
our hemispheres whitened at the edges, pressed and pressing, stonewalling surgery.
my fathers grew in a place called mei on 美安 (beauty peace), the soil there too feeble to
grow vegetables, raise a dog, much less a pig for the new year festivities.
they survived opium bandits jesus the japanese invasion long womanless chinky sojourns around the pacific rim in all the world’s gum sarns 金山 (gold mountains).
stringing lights with the night nurse was tiresome: clamping, unclamping, watching what:
on the alpine trail it was not the view that giddied – the most important ancestral villages
thing grandfather said was still your mind.
we didn’t know that it would seep set in lumps under the paling fence beside the pergola where the cat lay tight as a macadamia nut, nor did we foresee the leaves on the
pittosporum (pity spores) un-sheening for years after, no one knew
Grace Yee's poems have most recently appeared in Overland, Meanjin, Rabbit and Poetry New Zealand Yearbook. Grace teaches writing and literature at the University of Melbourne and is currently a Creative Fellow at the State Library of Victoria.