Before the pond
grew clotted and
before the move
to a hospital bed
you had swans
eat the rice from
your palms while I
stood off to the side
and you talked about
how their necks so slim
looked like the ladle you
once used to fill my belly
how they could tell us apart
though now you’re calling 爸爸
by his brother’s name all the words
matted together blotting out the surface
and you used to go to the pond even when
the sky’s jowls they were sagging with rain but
the swans haven’t told us apart for a year and you
won’t pick up when I call and don’t say it’s because
you’ve lied down in the room with the foam-white walls
say it’s because you’re moving your thumb across the screen
before you’re on the other end and you’re saying my name
saying 回来了, 回来了, I was just on the way home.
When the Swans Were Still With Us
Jun Ying Wen is a poet and writer born in southern China. She is currently a graduate student of public humanities at Brown University. Her work can be found in Acta Victoriana and Empty House Press, among other places.