Say museum and I could pretend that even dirt
can be enough of a body, but still I sit
skin whaled and thickening as my mother
teaches me how to hold myself, knuckles
feeding on the softness of bone as some
sort of creation of Chinese. Say, the only
difference between memorial and exhibition
is the softness of the body. My mother soaks
my feet in vinegar to remember the softness
of her own mother, and I see my reflection
as a ghost of a sparrow transformed to muscle
and light. The museum tour plays over again and
again like a prayer, and my body no longer recalls
what it was like to be a bird that could sing
underwater. But still, I dream of melodies in
forgotten languages, and from memory, my
grandmother transforms into a fish, and I, too,
say my name over again and again like a song, like
a rain that falls because it understands hunger.
Migration Story
Joyce Zhou is a rising undergraduate at Harvard University. Her work has been nationally recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, the Poetry Society of the UK, Penguin Random House, National Council of Teachers of English PRESLM Awards, and The Adroit Journal among others.