You are the sun that rises above waterthe jade buried in stonea woman who gives birth to sons My grandmother readsfrom the almanac of lifetucked under my bedsince the year I was born.I am the gypsy child she raised,more importantthan her own children,I cannot be labeled by a number. For me she lights incense daily,picks one Chinese characterand counts two rounds of five fingertipsuntil her eyebrows no longer twitchand she knowsI am safe from menwith heads but no tailswho want to drawcircles with their right handsquares with their left. These men, she says,can only pray to Buddhafor salvation, journey through snowin thin-soled shoes, crossthe mud-bridge.They cannot offer the lifeher prophesy commands.
The Kenyon Review.
© Priscilla Lee. All rights reserved.