Green Island Serenade

mountains. mountains as elephants 
holding each other’s trunks. a knot 
like marriage.

my mother said, chinese tour guides make their living 
comparing the shape of rocks to living things.

the chinese compare.

the shape of rocks. the shape of me. 

the chinese slang for lesbian: la la. 

to name myself, i sing.

elephants, knotted. 
trumpeting.

the clouds part. a single ray of light
strikes a tulip. a family holds onto each other’s 
belongings. a dark-haired woman
stretches toward the light. pulls herself 
higher. some unyielding metal knocks 
wood. unvarnished.

what i was raised to be.








some fruits just fall. 

a chorus of bells.

                                                                                                   first juice is always sweet.


                                                                                                   mom, i have something to tell you. 

                                                                                                               .

                                                                                                   i met a girl. i want you to meet her.



i shouldn’t have sent you to the u.s. 

the u.s. made you think this way.

.

i did not send you there to become 
who you are today.


.

if we no longer acknowledge you,

.


you know why.

.

                                                                                                   a bitterness right at the end.

before i met my mother on montserrat 

you told me you sang “green

island serenade” walking home in the place 

chinese call “snow city.” your voice piercing 

clouds of frost, like a boat

floating in the moonlight—

no. lit against glittering snow in your coat 

you are the boat.

i ambled on halfway down the river 

after other women

had boarded and fallen off. i followed 

the breeze to this version of you. 

blew open the curtain.

in the moonlight i learned about you—

you who i’d never met you who carried 

your parachute like a chorus of bells. 

like the keys rattling in my pocket 

every snowy night made you

airborne. my green island.





my mother told me the story of the elephant once—

on my father’s back,

her trunk wrapped around his waist.

.

the back of this mountain—

your calves. my calves. knotted trunks.

.

what if without compare, we just are? 

elephants singing.

when you and i are in the middle of the woods and the leaves are orange, 
it’s hard to remember that outside this island everything is ending

hey, if everything but us ends tomorrow, at least we got to eat apples

the elephant is	         not a syllable in the shape of a song

                                         not the river, a single spring not a chorus of bells

                                         not falling fruit 

                                         not a knot

                                         not a line but a circle 

                                         not you and i

                                         not montserrat

the cable car rocks on the way down, jangles 
as we switch overhead rails. the wind 
pushes against us, carrying everything
not attached to our bodies.
we are already falling into gravity, 
the whole car a gasp.

how i gasped, falling against gravity 
into you.
.

the wind pushes against us.

the carriage suspends itself to carry our weight. 

what we trust to save us
is also clinging on.

.

my father, carried
on his wife’s shoulders.

.

you help me carry this body.

.

on the ground everyone turns 
to the person next to them, 
smiles in relief—we made it.

we’re safe.

Read more from Issue 19.1.