

No, we never planned it that way 
But it so happened this seventh summer 
I took my twelve-year-young son 
To my father's native village among hairless hills 
In the far east end, the other side of the world 
Which he had left as a starving orphan 
And returned with me in the Mao suit 
Like a magic-toyed boomerang   When we were both at Allen's age 
      For the first times in our lives 
Last time, my father forced the Little Red Guard in me 
To kowtow, burn joss sticks and paper money secretly 
      For his parents, whose dialect had survived 
      Though I understood it only half-heartedly 
This time, I cajoled my boy to grasp a handful of earth 
          From the grave of my grandma worshipped by villagers 
          (Her humaneness has supposedly made her a local deity) 
And smuggle it to the backyard of our home in Vancouver 
      Like some foreign seeds prohibited at the customs 
As we departed, again, our clan elder chanted: 
      Under the shade of a new highway          This old grave will soon be erased...

All my life is a preparation for this moment 
So, please remove all these pipes and needles 
          (Meant to nail and chain me in this earthy cell) 
Feed me with no more food, drink or fluid 
          (They are nothing less the poison to my mind) 
Stop quilting me with any blankets or bed sheets 
          (For my spirit is warm enough to rise like a balloon) 
More important, keep talking or playing a yani to my ears 
          (They are my final exit from this crowded room) 
Ok, now, let it be right against light 
Let me use my might to think bright 
Shrinking all my shaded consciousness 
Into a tiny transparent dot, and remind me 
To become a god rather than a ghost

Into the backyard 
       Of my humble heart 
I transplanted three nameless trees 
       One blossoms in spring 
               And bears fruit in summer 
       One wrestles with winds and rains
 
               On each less bright day 
But the third does nothing 
       Except standing idly there 
  Up towards a distant star
Changming Yuan works as a college English tutor in Vancouver and has had nearly 200 poems published or forthcoming in (for example) Descant (CA), The London Magazine (UK), Offcourse, Porcupine, Private (IT), Sentence, and Snorkel (AU); his first little chapbook is coming out soon from Narrow House.






















