Bleach Haiku

Yuhan Wu, United States

summer evening, (1)

moths circle the silent lake, (2)

stirring the water (3)

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Endnotes

1. bathed in an alabaster glow, we dangle our legs over the lacquered water surface. sun-baked chinese girls in

borrowed americana, three sizes too big. we strung friendship bracelets from spider webs. pretended our names were

becky or sue, like those catalog girls who beamed in gingham. you peeled the sky like a clementine, sections

scattering into cicada-hum. an orange tang clung to the corners of your lips. i could have kissed you then, dusk

spilling golden ichor into our mouths.

2. its wings were paper, aching for fire. the cheap white porch bulb buzzes on, spilling its milk across the yard. we

watch as the air thickens with wings, moths slamming their bodies against the glass, frantic to sacrifice themselves

to heaven’s halo. was it the light they sought, or was it some stubborn pull they could not resist, bodies wound too

tight to turn away. i wondered if we were any different, irresistibly drawn to a glow that could never belong to us,

circling it until our powder shed from skin. one slipped behind the socket and its wings fluttered to stillness. the

night gave no answer whether it found its light or only its ending.

3. cicadas drowning themselves in the tremoloing heat. exuviae scattered haphazardly around our sandals, amber

husks vibrating with phantom legs. i bent over the lake and your face was swimming in it like an overripe moon,

henna freckles blurred into darting minnows. you said if we jumped in now, the whole night would bleach us clean.

would we then climb out new, maybe even white, maybe even shining? you leaned closer, breath grazing my cheeks,

as if daring me to fall. dusk tightened its hold on our throats. i cupped the water & it broke.

上海 /ˈSHaNGˌhī/

Yuhan Wu, United States

noun [home] : wet heat of my grandparents’ house / I squirm in a baggy gray T-shirt / grandma

tugs over my bare chest / eyes averted / fabric sticky with disapproval / we eat watermelon from

the chipped porcelain bowls / tinted with faded blue brushstrokes / a trail of red running down

our wrists / summer in Shanghai / memory, sweet and slightly bitter / we lick it clean

verb [to abduct] : the city swells / asphalt shimmers like oil in a wok / a sleazy middle-aged man

/ crooning 妹妹 mèimei 妹妹 mèimei / a silent litany of names / I wish I did not understand / I

am wearing a white tank top / that he peels with his eyes / I carry this gaze like a film on my skin

/ forget how girls here are pristine porcelains / the white tank top clinging to a body / no longer

mine / storefront reflections warp my silhouette / sunburnt and shame-pink

noun [home] : at dinner / a mixture of oil & water / Mandarin, English & Shanghainese sloshing

/ churning in my stomach / I fumble to chopstick the slippery curls of the tones / the pitches, yin

or yang / grandparents shake their heads / uncles and aunts laugh at me & call me 洋泾浜 /

mongrel tongue / bastard syllables butchered by a borrowed mouth / I smile, all teeth / it’s a trick

I learned in America / the delicate-boned fish almost chokes me

verb [to abduct] : pulled into a foreign world / I traded my roots for approval / flayed the soft

skin my mother gave me into burning tans / sliced my tongue into a new accent, bleeding / polish

until I passed the inspection / but nothing / not even the soreness from pretending / could scrub

out the ache of not belonging / drugged with memory / I return to familiar streets in a feverish

dream / look both ways too many times / walk too fast / or too slow / the air is complicit / wraps

around me like a silk 旗袍 qípáo / stitched too tight / & still I look back / still I say home?

noun [home] : what people don’t tell you / about leaving / is that the leaving never leaves you /

the rasping cicadas for example / the low rumble of dialects / the elm table under a churning

ceiling fan & the blinking pale lights / a mosquito lands on my shoulder / leaving a trail of

hickeys / I let it drink / maybe I miss the sting / of a version of myself / I can’t return to / it takes

me a few tries before I slap it dead / its crushed body leaves a little red smear / just above my

heart.

Translations:

妹妹: A catcall (in the context of this poem)

洋泾浜: An insulting Shanghainese term for someone who speaks a mixed or broken language

旗袍: A traditional Chinese dress

Yuhan (Jessica) Wu is a writer from Shanghai and New York. She is currently a junior at Middlesex School, and her works have been recognized by The Alliance for Young Artists & Writers and the New York Times. When she isn't writing, you can find her listening to K-pop or daydreaming.