The People’s Republic of China, 1949

Poetry by Kelly Hao 

You’ve met grandma before, you say, showing me an old photograph. Remember her?  White hair, a vest
to stay warm, face dappled with spots as if the sun, pouring over her face, cried soft tears. Like that time
I turned the page and saw drops inked in the space where someone dies, and from them, a red river. I
remember. I’ve been carried down that river, scraped along the sediments, rolled until a wave tucked
me back on shore, and when I finally looked back, I found you, stopped with your cart in the Asian
grocery, admiring the quantity of candy. They say morning is a beginning, but see there—the
crack of
dawn, the
break of dawn, that cusp of light, was gunfire. So when you set in front of me a jar of golden
candy, strung the sap around two chopsticks, and stretched its silk into string, I met her: a mother
saving honey for her daughter. They say
unfinished is a shortcoming, but see here, the un-finishing.
The shards form a bullet. The shot is in the barrel. The hand releases, and there, in the palm: sunrise. 

About the Author:

Kelly Hao is a graduating senior at The Ohio State University. After graduation, she will continue her education at Ohio State's medical school in hopes of becoming a physician writer. 

You may also like…

Villa Camillus

Villa Camillus

By Peyton Bender Grandma is small like me.   Nestled into her faded flowered   sheets, huddled into a pillow-fort   coffin, her wrinkled eyelids     blanket her eyes; her lips  do not greet me with a smile  today. She breathes like my   cabbage patch doll—so subtly  ...

When You Wish upon a Radio Tower

When You Wish upon a Radio Tower

By Melody Dunn Alrighty, how should I start?   “From the start, I suppose. Maybe give the world your motive first.”   Motive? Hm …   Well, I have eight siblings. I haven’t seen seven of them in 13 years, after we all left home to strike out on our own and try a chance...

Flat Stanley

Flat Stanley

By Hannah L. Nelson                                                      I hate                                          that change means we                              lose that piece of what used to                               be. Understandably not entirely,  ...