Louise Law

Two Poems Translated from the Chinese by Jennifer Wong

Air

Stained with fog, rain and sunlight, the air is hidden
in the abdomen of the mountain,
in the wrinkle-fold of a new leaf,
in the small fist of a newborn,
in the small cracks of the oars,
between the flowers on the white wall,
or in unfinished building structures,
In the cooled-down leaf under the mooli teacake
or a softened seat cushion.
A lampshade bought and installed three years ago,
or what the old lady was staring at
sitting on the long bench,
and a frozen fish, freshly delivered,
wrapped in cling film;
or what’s hidden in rhododendron.
Think of the tiny bones in the wings of a magpie.
Think of the yawn of a tabby cat
and a child’s saliva-spitting, as if
these were the replies to some ancient questions.

Reaching for the Knife on the Kitchen Table

What happened was history.
Beans scattered along the axis of time,
each bean marginally different from another.
I bent down to arrange them in a non-existent order,
the first bean hardly recognizable.
Is it this one? How do you start making a dinner?
Open the fridge, take out the tomato, or to wash it first.
On the kitchen table, it looks fully rounded
like a period.
It began with the trip to the supermarket
choosing the items,
paying for them,
and then entering the kitchen
I have entered countless times before,
before taking out the tomato and knife
Someone talks about the good weather.
I brought mom a bowl of soup.
After composing myself, every dinner
becomes a matter of the past.
I try and try, but still the problem lies
in the knife—
There the chopping board lies, scarred:
small pieces of wood, food debris
and the memories of my meals,
stacked/heaped together, indistinguishable.