by Li Zhuang
Li, let me teach you a simple trick:
If you hold your chin high enough,
tears would never fall.
How brilliant it is!
To single-handedly
destroy the waves.
This time let the swelling
heat, the salty attacks
on your lashed shores
no longer dependent
on two cosmic bodies
& their lofty orbits
but the arch of your neck
the bowstring tremolo
in your throat
This time, let the most vulnerable
part of your body decide.
Li, let the tide recede.
LI ZHUANG is a Chinese bilingual writer. In 2019, Li graduated with an MFA in Fiction Writing from Columbia University. Her works have been featured in The Common, Denver Quarterly, the Madison Review, Southeast Review, Worcester Review, the Collapsar, etc. Li is currently working on a poetry project that, much like the Chinese zodiac’s use of animals to symbolize personality and fate, uses animal metaphors to reflect her journey as a Chinese diasporic poet in the United States.
