We live in an ocean of white waiting to fall. One of us is not like our mother and it's me. It's I. My eyes are mostly closed. My mother knows how to make snow. We never see our feet. Our skirts end in the oncoming frost. My sister wears ermine. I have a narrow waist. I no longer curl my hair. Why bother? I love my sister but hate my mother yet we're all of a piece. Endless snipsnip. Ragged fragment. We still live where you last left us-- between the palace where you keep your winter and the summer garden of the ersatz emperor. Did I hear you say China? If I did you are right. We live atop the continent that contains such poverty. Such pollution. Such eerie beauty. Always a mountain. Always a screen. White washes over me. I do not act like my mother. I lean farther. What I make annihilates the mirror of China but not the mountain. Not the man walking away. My mother says throw more snow but I can't help thinking There is more to being than erasure. You are wrong she says. You don't wear your cape. |
© 2001 Mary Jo Bang