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      April 23, 2018Qí PáoElizabeth T. Chao

                      The
                     neck
             of my mother’s
         qí páo is too small for
       me, delicate silk fists too
        weak to punch its way
         around my thick pipes
          and clasp in a fixing
              embrace. The
                waist of my
             grandmother’s
         qí páo was too nar
        row for even my twelve-
       year-old paunch. By then
      my gluttony for all things
      sweet and forbidden had
       corroded and cracked the
         tiny straight teeth of its
          zipper.

      from #59 - Spring 2018

      Elizabeth T. Chao

      “My family moved from Taiwan to Texas when I was seven. I was in first grade, and I wore a navy-blue uniform that had the three characters of my name embroidered just above the left breast pocket. In America, I wore jeans, t-shirts, and purple shoes to school. In America, the three characters of my name lived in a distant drawer and smelled funny. In America, I learned to dump my leftovers into a big trashcan and feel free to go get more.”

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