Poetry

1949-present

Michelle Zhang

Before my mother lived, but after her
own mother found herself to be alone
and orphaned, propaganda red and true
would loom, the hammer-sickle proudly flown.
Her empty heart and belly shriveled to
the size of the rice grains her body lacked.
In Tiananmen Square, riots now tabooed
exiled my mom and left no artifacts.
Should Mao Ze Dong apologize to me?
My family? My great-grandfather leapt
and hurled his body into shit to free
himself from prison, even though it meant
death. My red blood is not the Chinese red:
it flows for justice, America instead.

Orientation

Michelle Zhang

May I not go wherever I please?
Must I submit to Occident
tradition? Some say I over
exaggerate. But when (to them)

do I not? In relation to white
men, Orientals must stay hushed
like children: seen, not heard. “You set
examples, prove we’ve moved enough

so we’re not stuck in time. We are blind
to colors, creeds. Equality
has been achieved.” Ironically
the words they say are slightly true.

We have not yet achieved any real
equality, but this is how
they want it. Assimilate,
move up the ladder, look down.

I have not always made a big fuss
about the white man’s order to
succeed submissively. But as
illusions luminate their hate
I cannot let them orient me.

Kopi C 

Michelle Zhang 

A sip so familial
so simple like hugs from
my mother who’s oceans
and islands away. A
 
swift swallow emotion
that showers my headache
of worry away. A
 
reminder that love for
my home is to cherish
in every new moment
away.