after Lyn Hejinian
by Ariel So
Whether a memory or made-up scene, I envision the outdoor steps I
tripped over, the way oral history tripped me over its cracks. Much of
childhood is spent in a manner of waiting. My sister asked me to
attempt her name when I was old enough to speak. Seven too many
letters. Instead, I muttered the first letter twice, T-T: a nickname that
stuck. Years later, a mute man would come by our apartment and ring
the doorbell to sell his art. Though I was afraid to greet strangers, Dad
bought his painting, hung it on our wall: a Chinese goddess wearing
pure silk-white to cover herself. When the bloom unfolded—again
some years later—scenarios did too, as relics: Pink teenage hoodie,
empty bathroom stall. The autumn breeze, the hallway, the backdoor
staircase. Dirtied by hands at the Recreational Arts Center. Someone
to adore me. Unzipped. Get home. Dorm. Though moments are no
longer so colored. The sky split into three braids, and I forget now
which year is what.
Ariel Joy So is a Chinese poet—born and raised in Hong Kong—who has spent significant time living in Singapore and the United States. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Tupelo Quarterly, Bee Infinite Publishing, Protest Through Poetry, Sprague Gallery, and elsewhere. She graduated from Scripps College with a BA in English and Creative Writing Emphasis. Currently, she is an MFA Candidate in Poetry at Columbia University.