March 2010, Henan Province~ By Dana Fang

i.
my body has learned to sleep everywhere.
coal dust. I shed in the humid spring.
in ditches I count the number of thumbs
a woman can have clipped
to the tail end of her waist
 
ii.
my father swims the yellow river
you can tell I am young by how firm
my abdominals are, he says how far
did you go?      a hundred meters
behind where I began he tells me
 
iii.
women will rush the yellow rapids
thighs dilapidating in the sun
 
iv.
we go back to Luoyang
where willow trees do not bloom but whistle
beside hills of the dead. my mother touches
her hip hoping to pay the driver.
in her pocket she finds
strings of shriveled thumbs
 
v.
keep them well oiled
and you can exchange each finger
for a chance go home
 
women sweep under the willows
before sleep I tuck the yuan
beside my breast.
when the cicadas sing of
years spent underground
dreaming of the sun,
I become savage.
 
vi.
my father weeps
spine swept with currents.
the darkened distance fills slowly
with the sound of his steps.
fills slowly
with the sound of his steps.


Author Bio:
Dana Fang is a student at Oberlin College majoring in Creative Writing and English Literature, with a minor in Studio Art. She is also passionate about comics and boot-arts.