Reservoir

Shiyu Zheng, China

as the old women say, a daughter is born with a river in her chest

but given a teacup to tend, and they all know

she is either overflowing or bone-dry.

so this map of thirst was drawn on my mother’s body:

the scalpel’s coast above her hips, pale and permanent,

the continental shelf of a scar, the dried estuary of her navel.

and it’s because i watched her at the well of her mirror,

her thumb pressed into my chin, turning my face toward the glass

as she painted her lips the color of a lychee’s split heart,

while grandmother stitched hers shut with black thread,

hissing family through a mouthful of rusted hairpins,

her reflection a lantern filling with smoke.

that night i swallowed once, the river rising against my ribs,

murky floodwater climbing up the basement, murmurs

drawing me into dreams as i split a pomegranate

and found my mother’s wedding ring embedded in the bloody flesh;

a cold, golden seed, and she confessed, i buried my larynx here to make the tree sweet,

her hands smelling of sandalwood and lye as she pointed

to the family tree heavy with fruit

meant only for other mouths, and i knew then it was not about the fruit,

it was never about the fruit. and in the morning i found

a single pomegranate seed stuck to my tongue,

dawn forcing its way through the cracked cistern of my teeth,

the new day thawing from a bitten tongue, the aftertaste of hunger.

Shiyu is a contradictory runaround. She is an athlete in motion, a musical lover with a terrible voice, an apple enthusiast, and a falsely nostalgic historian. In her free time, she enjoys scribbling, listening to music, and bouncing to Queen behind a locked door. She is an alumna of the Sewanee Young Writers' Conference, and her works have been recognized by The Blue Marble Review, The Weight Journal, and more.