Every year on the cusp of old and new,grandmother kneels in front of the fireplacewith her Tung Shu and bookmarks,tosses five quarters onto brick.She watches the orderin which they fall, scratches my namewith her brittle fingernail into the book's marginwhen she has matchedtheir sequence to a fortune. This year was a good year, next will be better,she always tells me after studying the characters.The warrior who has won the battlestands at a crossroad,and his horse is hungry.The carp tries to leapthe high wall, its scalesa blistering glare. The fishermancatches the prize pelicanwith an oyster in its long beak.The kirin, half tiger, half dragon,enters the forbidden city. Year after year, she wants my fortunesto drag me toward the coming year, buthow can I be as certain as grandmotherthat my life is good? The warrior has won a battle,but does he complete his journeyif he has no horse, no food? Is the carp's leaptranscendent or defiant? Which am I—fisherman, oyster, or pelican?And the kirin, the long-awaited prince—to what political state is he born, andwhat does it mean to be a prince and a woman?
Making More Waves: New Writings By Asian American Women.
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