the louderARTS Project

Tina Chang

Tina Chang, the author of Half-Lit Houses (Four Way Books, 2004), received an MFA in poetry from Columbia University. Her poems have appeared in American Poet, Indiana Review, The Missouri Review, Ploughshares, Quarterly West, Sonora Review, among others. Her poems have been anthologized in Identity Lessons (Penguin Putnum, 1999) Poetry Nation (Vehicule Press, 1998), Asian American Literature (McGraw-Hill, 2001), Asian American Poetry: The Next Generation (University of Illinois Press, 2004) and forthcoming in Poets 30: Poets in Their Thirties. She has received awards from the Academy of American Poets, the Barbara Deming Memorial Fund, the Ludwig Vogelstein Foundation, the New York Foundation for the Arts, Poets & Writers, the Van Lier Foundation and has held writing fellowships from Djerassi, Fundación Valparaíso, The MacDowell Colony, the Vermont Studio Center, Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, and Villa Montalvo. She teaches at Sarah Lawrence College and Hunter College.


www.tinachang.com


Servitude
Li Sau and Li Jie         [Hunan, 1938]

She takes one breast out of her silken undershirt
like a secret, a warm brown egg and places it into his
open mouth. His body is hammocked

in floral cloth, tied to her bosom. August sweats
at the base of her neck. She gives away
her milk to a child she calls shiou an, smallest

night. She wishes he were her own as she crouches
in a field separating rotted stems from dried tea leaves.
I think of unraveling her two long

braids when I do the chores--chasing the crazed
chickens with their throats cut, stringing them by their feet
to the front trees. Bodies dripping

with leaves, the air smells of wild blood everywhere.
Tonight, after she has swept stiff crickets down the back steps,
after I have washed dung from my fingernails with ginger

she will come quietly. We will lie down
on woven straw mats and watch the hanging
branches scrape against the unarmed sky.

She puts her fingers to my lips which smell of
smashed guava and lilac powder. I eat what she
has brought me: bits of pig knuckle and mushrooms

collapsed in brown sauce. The whole town is strewn
with horses and red doorways and burned fish.
Past this house, there is a field which is set afire.

The torching of it like a lit city.
Li Sau, the bruised night pours in through all
the shutters of the house and nothing is coming for us.



© Tina Chang



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