ode to a lotus, in solitude
I.
and to the crackling lotus:
do you see yourself
as the loveless cousin of opium?
born out of that bloody-nosed water,
your roots ruptured like a warrior’s spine.
your skull—collapsing into more
holes than a mother’s hands.
you carry all that salt in your stems,
as if to die simply means drink,
and your leaves still pray upwards—
a wire for the whistling rain, silencing
your thirst for the night.
and to the crackling lotus:
do you see yourself
as the loveless cousin of opium?
born out of that bloody-nosed water,
your roots ruptured like a warrior’s spine.
your skull—collapsing into more
holes than a mother’s hands.
you carry all that salt in your stems,
as if to die simply means drink,
and your leaves still pray upwards—
a wire for the whistling rain, silencing
your thirst for the night.
II.
We shoot down
the last bit of mercy even
fire sustains.
Watching a life open itself
like a wound, spitting out
a gargle before the embers.
Shapeless reds behind oven glass,
imploding
like sunsets. Our tongues, trapped
behind teeth, still
reaching for the white-hots.
A burning stove, bright
as a hospital.
And the lotus, having grown
all its life in freshwater,
still meeting the lashes
of salt at midnight.
III.
in this living hour / seaspray sweeps / through the house like a fishnet / my mother breaks /
into flour-crusted pots holding oceans / of oil / yellowing seas under islands / without eyes /
keeping afloat for a hunger / all this violence in a recipe / words translating into steam / some
drowning by their pores / made into shadows / there is something so ugly / to witness / a living
grave / left in utero / lingering in a past / tense /
III.
in this living hour / seaspray sweeps / through the house like a fishnet / my mother breaks /
into flour-crusted pots holding oceans / of oil / yellowing seas under islands / without eyes /
keeping afloat for a hunger / all this violence in a recipe / words translating into steam / some
drowning by their pores / made into shadows / there is something so ugly / to witness / a living
grave / left in utero / lingering in a past / tense /
Mingyu Brian Chan is a poet and writer from New York. You can find his works forthcoming or published in The Emerson Review, Beaver Magazine, SUNHOUSE Literary, The Shore, and more.
Beaver Magazine 