by Chris Tse
In this terracotta haze my skin reads like foxed pages, yesterday’s news
forged by the trial and error of endangered life. This country built on a heart
of borders between old and new every life a soldier caught up in uneasy grace.
~
Just another chink in my armour.
Just another son missing
in a long line of dislocations
from the motherland
from a mother tongue
that licks at the hollow
of my mouth, down
to each last beat
of my difficult language.
~
This talk of the other that trails
my every move back home speaks not of defiance, but of blood-clot guilt.
Here, like evidence on trial,
it pushes me across
every defined border
only to end up on my own side still where the verdict is my scarlet letter.
~
Of course it mattered back then too, possibly even more so — not knowing which crayons to use at school
for family portraits and if it wasn’t my name or my lunchbox contents
it was the Chinese tongue I so easily surrendered to the playground government
all my colours running in the wash. These days it seems I’m losing myself again more than ever
reborn in China like every other disconnected branch split straight down the middle and walked out into proof.
They can see who I really am all soil and tears the product of fearless journey and the settler dream
when all I want is to be brave in safety with my inherited demons.
~
I am but a tourist a counterfeit in their nights of private games, scattered on the wind
a million leaves to the score. I bring nothing but a selfish search and a claim to belong.
Behind the safety of hotel windows protected from the vice-like grip of beggar kids
where curtains divided reveal this country for what it is:
grey inconsistent and for reasons unknown utterly addictive. |