Translated from Chinese by Eleanor Goodman
Bonsai Primer
At the IKEA checkout, a tiny curiosity
nearly stirred your pocket money.
Each time I brought you along,
the wait in line made human creativity
seem as funny as showing off.
It was already hard to keep you
from seeing through a father’s teachings. I tried all the tricks,
but mostly I steeled myself
and showed that hidden behind the father’s role
was a friend. Will you remember
to water it twice a week?
“I will.” The right answer is
“I promise.” But deep down,
I felt guilty, I shouldn’t have taught you
to make promises so young.
“And I know it’s called a provision tree, it’s from Mexico.”
OK then. You reminded me that the leaves
were too pretty for it to be a kapok.
Was there anything left to teach you?
Suppose the answer was yes—then to teach you
was to teach myself.
I loved you so much I could tell
you loved me even more, more fervently, even more unconditionally.
Despite all the dangers, you still let me
bring you into this world. In recompense,
the best I could do
was let you have your curiosity; encourage you
to see which things you experienced
came from something you actually enjoyed—
like that time when I indulged you
and bought that little bonsai,
guiding you to identify it right away
as your tiny sister of the plant world.
The Light of August Primer
On the levee, the light of August
lightly strokes the patience of the reeds.
The river is shadowy green, and the shuttling purple martins,
like scales dropping down a slanted balance,
make the world’s weight appear all the more suspicious;
how can slowing down life with secrets compare
to slowing down the world with a son?
Forgive me, my sweat is often
more precise than my exclamations. But even more precisely,
my sweat often flows toward my son’s shadow—
there, the drooping willow branches are so humanlike they seem
like little braids offered to us by nature.
Tug at one, and a flavor of the plains
is so intense it can make time lose its place.
The only unaffected thing, piled up
on my youth, your youth
is like a wide screen, where the world’s roles
are redistributed anew. Four years old
is like a wrinkle in time,
and from behind I steady the bicycle and gradually push it
as you ride atop like a little bear,
who upon waking suddenly realizes all that’s left in the world
is a single-plank bridge. I lean down,
press my cheek to your little ear
so that my commands and inspiration can more directly
stir up your small comprehension.
In half an hour, you learned
how to ride on the dusk’s neck.
In truth, each of your successes,
in the face of a dark world,
got mixed up with my pride.