for my Nan, whom I've never met, and Lee Maracle In the spring of 2021, I took a poetry workshop with Lee Maracle as part of the Verses Festival series organized by my friend and beloved poet, Joseph Dandurand. The first lines of this poem grew out of that session, under Lee's generous words and guidance, and was eventually finished in Sophie McCall's Black and Indigenous literatures course. It was a beautiful session, and the words flowed for me as swiftly as the energy that Lee gathered among all of us. But this was by no means an easy poem to write. The summer passed, and then autumn. I returned to the words that grew out of her workshop daily, weekly, at times simply remembering her feedback. This is the impact of Lee on me: she has the synergy toward something big, some new material, and creates a space where you can flourish and be encouraged. While at the same time, reminding that work matters to us must not be rushed. We owe that responsibility to ourselves and our stories to honour via listening, learning, and care. [一] Dear Nan may I call you that? the names of family members are given but no one gave me your name my caesuras form a bridge that is my incomprehension and the arms of my silences learning to reach you a written script is born under sky roofing soil we raised a home over the heads of our children and called their promise our language with a name each character housed a choreography of stories we nurtured with our words obsolete: in ancient Chinese to word is to become pregnant give birth and love — - -- [二] Your language is a bowl and the sloped roof from which water feeds into my bowl rain me a story for six brushstrokes of 字 in forecast an immigrant granddaughter understands for the children removed from their semantic [宀] roof to wade their meanings back 字 is pronounced 子 phonetically one means word and the other offspring you are still pronounced my grandmother though you’d been gone a few years by the time I was breathing — - -- [三] Between August and September 1986 The Great Leap Forward old ideas were eradicated old language ancestral intergenerational memory under one 宀 my father and his sister tossed lullabies like food scraps to the chickens the words their ma ma used to sing each morning the Yellow River muscled breaststrokes into the salinity of the Bohai sea the poet’s brush had a body of bamboo followed Nan’s poetry into a plasma of ghosts but realized it could on its own swim at the enjambment of a poem was a dot and horizontal brushstrokes curving into my family’s ravine where the choreography signalled a lift there was room in the water to surface the head and breathe — - -- [四] Dear Nan Ba Ba is in a remote place Daxing Anging the largest forest in China speaks of no existing access in the short distances joining a small trail and the other side of the river years prior the water bed was a small stream years prior the story of you gurgled like calm water in your son’s voice mouthing hai zi daughter and i remember laughter in my ears but it’s been a summer of rain and constant longing for rain here that reached his continent I cried so much and the weather met my silences as if in mourning the clouds could bridge arms as if raining the clouds appeared whole before us like a family again a family of clouds speaking the choreography of our common roof — - -- [五] Nan woman i long for like sad climates and cup water in hand olfactive rain ghosts I cried so much that Ba Ba eventually knelt before that remote place in the forest and built a bridge before the frozen season fell the frozen season that promised no gift of safe crossing for his crew after the bridge eventually fell materials irretrievable the language washed out of my father’s name a silent roof over 子 that i carried for hopes of knowing you I’ve only begun to know you, Nan and the new bridge he built stood half way on its own sturdier forgot the words i love you i love you the other half my mother and i once were — - -- [六] You don’t have to be an immigrant to forget the names of elites and their golden pheasant blooming caesuras under silent monuments of rain Ba Ba’s hushed breath frozen in air was a twine of you that reached me like those 12-dollar ghosts we bought at the candy blower’s in a different story Nan’s brush plunged itself in tallow grease taken from the hide of livestock ignited that years later got mixed into mooncakes precious New Years’ ingredients reminders how many days did it take for her scrolls to lose meaning materials that upon entering the river gurgled a mouthful of ink the bridge eventually fell traditional characters irretrievable the sweet-smelling ink washed out of my father’s generation silent 字 in my memory between
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