Literary Center » "Hemlock, 1956," a poem by Victoria Chang

from the collection tree of wisdom

A wooden door in front of everything. a door
On my country. A door in the lake. my poems

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Give preference to timber hunting dogs. if i say there is a
There is a door to my heart in poetry.

Now I can open this door. the door is small
However the door. I have to get down on my knees to crawl, to drag myself

My body with my wooden elbows.
I bump into my wooden mother whoever it is

Creeping into my heart. she smiles so big
His suffering lights the tunnel. i can now

Look at my whole heart, not empty like I thought.
There is no one in it except my mother.

A rotten hemlock tree at the beginning of
Aorta. Finally a eucalyptus. two black allen

Birds. She asks me to feed my father.
I don’t have the courage to tell him that he’s close

In the end, there were a lot of holes in his brain, you can see
Right through it. I promise her that I will try to love

I don’t love anyone as much as she does
Live his death alone. she gives me a tupperware

With rice and bok choy to give to my father. i cat
food because it belongs to someone else

Heart. Next to a fetus. I am lost in my own heart
Now. I sit in the corner and count red.

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