1972, my mother contemplates chairman mao
21, my mother is at an age
when men love only
what is beautiful sitting by the river, she is
reading the Little Red Book
and decides that Mao, unlike men who love
only what is beautiful, loves only
two things—
poetry
and power
詩
力
(爱)
--
poetry
power
(love)
she makes a note of this
beneath Mao’s round portrait
so far, love
has little meaning
when it comes
to men
my mother has been told
her nose is flat, her skin
too dark and calloused by months
in the rice paddies
today, my mother is homesick
having received news
of her brother, thrown
from an ox cart and trampled
the letter
stamped by Mao’s red crest
her parents are miles gone in Shanghai,
they have not seen their children
since last year’s harvest
Mao instructs:
passivity is fatal
let a hundred flowers bloom
let a hundred schools of thought
contend
that night she waits until the other girls fall asleep and slips
from the farmhouse
the moon
cannot be read by, so my mother
composes a poem
telling herself
she is a farmer and does not need
to be beautiful
