They say you sang like an angel
on that island in the bay
where foghorns drowned out
nighttime murmurs : children’s
names recited, prayers to deaf
dumb gods, poems chiseled into
barrack walls, lives left out
in the rain.
I heard them say I have your giggle
and your preference for peaches.
I never touched your flesh or face
but this is what I gather:
From Fat Yuen to Gold Mountain,
from girl to wife now claimed,
tides ferried you from village
hearth to far foggy days.
The island where the angels weep
nabbed you just offshore. Offered
a thin blanket, cold rice,
interrogations, and a dreary
three month chill. Finally you
and Gong Chow found a spot
to land on. You served up rice
to sailors and to homesick fellows
hungry for your song.
My mother June, your feisty first,
Roslyn and David followed.
Restaurant shiny, children strong,
then came the day to return,
history called you home to China.
June refused to go along and kept
Roslyn too. The clouds and tides
that brought you here, ushered
you back through.
Within two years word arrived
Gong Chow died in China
like he wanted. One month later
on a whisper you too passed
away. Especially on misty days
I listen for your song:
I know your fathoms of despair,
your gentle grasp on pleasure.
The peace of spirit that you seek
encompasses all in-betweens,
measures life in graces. Though
ocean tides rip heart from heart,
the interwash of time and tide
returns us deep to deep.
© Deborah Jang. All Rights Reserved.
Deborah Jang writes her way through the mysteries, perplexities, and joys of being human — on this planet, at this moment, in this skin. She is also a visual artist, engaging connection through forms and objects. She wanders between Denver, CO and Oceanside, CA; between mind and heart; between land and sea. She invites you to visit her website at deborahjang.com
