If I steep the jasmine and orchid petals
from my centenarian grandmother’s
bereavement bouquet
and the still bright red tulip
from lunar new year into a ginger tea
brewed in my great-grandmother’s yellow teapot
with the ear-shaped handles
and I drink this salve
must I have an open heart
to quell the throbbing in my stomach?
I wish instead to lurk as a ghost
of this almost middle-aged self
one glistening white hair
that falls to my shoulders
a draft passes through me
walking through the rooms of the top floor
as I search for my matrilineal past
open closets and cabinets
the door handles bending
knobs coming off in my hand
where is the soil of our ancestral home, clatter
of green and white mahjong tiles
chopsticks set on the rim of empty bowls
the stubble on the faces of the men they loved?
when I sit to breathe in the darkness
I feel small, strong hands secure around my neck
fingers longer and more slender than mine
reminding me of the ribbons
inside my throat I cannot unfold
that leave only part a passageway
for what I swallow whole
the eruption of sobs
and this tea that flows too quickly down
when I feel a warmth on my back
a light touch on my shoulder
I cannot believe it is her
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 24, Issue 5.
Angela Siew is a multilingual poet who received her MFA from Emerson College. She has received support from the Sewanee Writers’ Conference, the City of Boston and the Community of Writers Poetry Workshop. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Salamander, Crab Orchard Review, and Art New England, and she is the recipient of an Academy of American Poets College Prize.
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