QÍ PÁO
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 Rattle #59, Spring 2018
Tribute to Immigrant Poets
__________
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.”
