A Formosa Fiddler speaks

Jasmine Lin

  • At the start of the summer
  • we are free at last.
  • In the freezer is
  • Orangeade on sticks;
  • popsicle in hand I go
  • outside to find danger--
  • an ant carrying a chip
  • of wood bigger than it,
  • a decisive wasp, the willow
  • on the overhang. The woe
  • of the wind has no succor--
  • dollops of cloud its object.
  • First thing this morning,
  • I looked up "hyperbole".
  • 70 years later that dictionary
  • still sits here, alongside a pebble
  • my mother used to keep in her coat,
  • held and smoothed by her fingers.
  • The cradle is a vehicle of lulling,
  • the crayon a diligent piece of wax.
  • In my rocker I sit, sipping cinnamon that rises in steam.
  • Memory is a sheet of foam
  • --at least in precision, whiteness.