River, Blood, And Corn Literary Journal: Deborah Jang

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To my bystanders

by Deborah Jang

People stand by during attack of elderly Asian woman – Associated Press

Did you catch a whiff of lilac

on that warm summer eve

while we gathered at the bus stop,

each wandering our mind?

Out the corner of your eye

did you flinch, did you see him

rushing twilight, pushing rudely in?

In a flash of recognition,

did your stomach tell your throat

what was going down?

Did you see my toes curl fetal

while I lay sideways

on the concrete stunned?

Did you freeze in fear and horror?

Did you look the other way?

Did you reach down for your phone

or was it already in your hand?

Were you scared to intervene?

Did your silence cheer him on?

Was it you who kneeled down

and whispered something kind

I didn’t understand?

Did you see my bruised face on TV?

Did they say my name?

Did they even try?

Deborah Jang’s creative practices include assemblage sculpture and poetry, based out of Denver, Colorado and Oceanside, California. Her debut poetry collection is titled Float True (Shanti Arts, 2020). Her new chapbook is Last Will and Best Guesses (Finishing Line Press, 2022). deborahjang.com

LAST WILL AND BEST GUESSES by Deborah Jang

"Deborah Jang knows the terrain of the human heart. In Last Will and Best Guesses she offers an unflinching meditation on mortality and mystery. Jang taps into our shared experiences from the pandemic to racial reckonings, the environmental crises, the plights of refugees. She writes candidly about the workings of her mind, which are the unspeakable workings of ours too. She muses on connections and consciousness that alter and deepen through recent and ongoing trauma and settles into grace. This is a rich, relatable book to pull out again and again." –Terra Trevor is a contributor to 15 books including, Take A Stand: Art Against Hate.

"Deborah Jang writes through a raging global pandemic, when a “planet [is] spinning off its axis,” gathering strength to face its uncertainties and attendant anti-Asian violence and sentiment. This is a reserve, for herself, and future generations, and I am nourished by her work." –Diana Khoi Nguyen is a poet and multi-media artist whose book, Ghost Of, was a 2018 finalist for the National Book Award in Poetry.

“Mind bent, nose blown, fingers crossed./Head bowed, going home.” Deborah Jang writes to the rhythm of life while examining death and all its intricacies. This chapbook is an exhale and a deep breath." –Vogue M. Robinson is the author of Vogue 3:16 (2014) and served as Poet Laureate (2017-2019) for Clark County, Nevada.

Last Will and Best Guesses by Deborah Jang, Finishing Line Press

Marching orders

by Deborah Jang

Sometimes pre-dawn I pretend

I’m hiding from the Nazis

I slo mo breathe in semi-darkness
inches from light sleeper

Each inhalation rising smooth
drawn deep from belly

ballooning lungs, up open throat,
a u-turn at the larynx

Then straight out rounded lips
suspended in a gentle O

All of the above of course —
silent, slow, steady.

If we were in Krakow
a frosty puff would linger.

Here, into a world of hurt,
this one bare breath alights.

I make myself a secret, a refugee
from sight. A figment of creation.

Arm waves softly through dark air.
No creak. No chafe. No bristle.

No cough. No smacking of dry lips.
No errant bump or sniffle.

With focused grace the body knows
the margins of its bearing.

A patch of air is all that lies
between liberty and terror.

Trampling boots kick hard against
the mind’s hard won freedom.

Flesh winces at the thought
of quick, steel toed precision,

of the pounding at the door,
the stench of human danger.

History guts presence
with shards of hate and fear.

Renders mute our sorrow.
sends us to our caves

where in sacred silence
each breath softly quickens.

We make way through harrow
in dusky daring measure.

Mind’s eye searches escape routes
past the brink of dire.

If we were in Krakow we’d pile
in the cellar, shush the baby sister,

lock eyes with the neighbors.
cringe into harsh light.

Would I not go gentle
without hiss or fight?

Would I link arms with others
and march into harm’s way?

Would I face tall gallows
with head held up high?

Would I offer comfort
on the train to chambers?

Not look away or wither
from the cruel of might?

Moon and sun trade places.
I breathe in morning skies.

I pray with extra fervor.
I note the warning signs.

Practice silence in the air
Walk with care, stare down demise.

Ease each out-breath into flow.
Let each find its way to brave

whole and holy into the fray.
Breath by breath by breath, unhide.

Marching orders is included in Float True by Deborah Jang.

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 is the author of Float True.
deborahjang.com

All-american Gong Girl

By Deborah Jang

Eldest daughter of Gong Chow and
Siu Shee, immigrant couple from China.
Born in Richmond, California, north
of San Francisco, just across the bay.

Named Fong Yuet for the ancestors. State-
side she was June. To me, forever Mom.
Fireworks the night before announced
her arrival July fifth nineteen thirty.

Every Independence Day she felt pangs
of affirmative glee -- as if she belonged.
At least to the sky. At nine she was sent
to Chinese school in San Francisco,

an immigrant custom she soon rejected.
She hopped on the Greyhound bus alone,
rode home to her parents’ chagrin.
At Richmond Elementary she joined

the harmonica band, worked the restaurant
after school, did not miss a shift.
During wartime the family moved
to the valley, where June was a big hit.

Team debater, class treasurer, best-dressed
girl at Merced High — she had it going on.
Chinese pilots training at the air base
lined up for her dance card. She tango’d,

cha-cha’d, bunny hopped with gusto
and soft laughter. Got a job downtown
Merced selling ladies dresses. Took up with
the owner who promised to promote her.

Post-war, Gong Chow had made plans
to return to China. The story goes June
said NO, kept her little sister with her
while the ship dipped off horizon.

June and sis stayed with Monroe, the now
betrothed store owner. He promised
her folks his good care but didn’t really
follow through, so June then divorced him

Though not before the three of us claimed
her heart forever. Dave Allen was the next guy.
With him she bore two more sons, of Chinese
Irish extraction. Bridge clubs, soccer,

cul-de-sacs filled her American sky. Especially
on July fourth her urgent eyes scanned
the night for oomph pah pah, or maybe
something keener. By now we lived back

by the bay. It was the flowered sixties.
Her five young grew out their hair,
while she and Dave plied the days
with good times, hard work, harder drink.

He died young, she carried on, the children
ventured forth. Her last man was Ken Wilkins,
though there were others in between - all this
to say, she enjoyed the company of fellows.

When Ken passed it hit her hard. The children
couldn't save her. At sixty-two June was through.
We sprinkled her at sea. I strike the gong.
It rumbles wide, ripples up night sky.

Where do the good, kindhearted go?

To lipstick smiles
left on napkins perfectly
half stuck on rims
where gin and tonics flowed

Gliding long as fingertips
that tucked me into cool
crisp sheets in days when sleep
was easy, a keeper
of shy adorations
nestled in young motherlove

Arpege, Pall Malls, show
tunes, novels, husbands
in a row, loud laughing
midnight parties
turned to shouting
or big whispers
then to fragile mornings after

Scrabble, dim sum, Niners,
grandkids

Now to ashes dancing
at the gate, not
missing one last beat.

© Deborah Jang. All Rights Reserved.

Hearsay

by Deborah Jang

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.

To my bystanders

LAST WILL AND BEST GUESSES by Deborah Jang

Marching orders

All-american Gong Girl

Hearsay

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