Poems from Untitled (corn piece)

Poems from Untitled (corn piece) - Lucy Zhang Part of the installation Untitled (corn piece)

I am practicing to be a writer

I am practicing to be a writer.

It is a craft that takes great skill
and great discipline.

I take naps and eat bagels
in preparation.

“FUCK I make great matcha lattes!”
I write this down because I am trying to become
a cool writer.

The stars in the well (Grandma & the world)

I think we all deserve to eat persimmons in the summertime
and I think art can save the world.

I want Baba to tell me stories forever
I hope the stars stay holding up the sky

Maybe I can catch one
Maybe it can fit in the pouch Grandma sewed for me
Maybe she could sew all the stars together
Maybe she’s the one holding up the sky.

We climb atop our houses
to hear each other clearer
The children are our messengers

They tell me the well draws a picture
of Grandma at night
And that she looks just like the Moon.

Aren’t we lovely
when we say art can save the world?
Isn’t the Moon so beautiful?

I hope the river writes my name
and carries it to the well
I hope to draw a picture of it
on the other side of the Moon.

//

I remember what I meant to say sorry for.

My dad doesn’t have a birth certificate—he has 3 birthdays and sometimes I forget which one we celebrate.

I’m sorry I forgot and I’m sorry you didn’t know.

//

Mandarin

Mandarin is a language that reads me.
That’s called 默契
— or 心有灵犀.
I don’t know the word for it
but I know Baba does.

I changed my name two times:
once because I didn’t want to write it
and once because I wanted to right it.

Written words in Chinese come from drawings
— I wish I was there when they made them.
I would draw a picture of Nainai
coming back from the field.
A cozy air of sunlight caught
in a thin veil of dust
that her shoes kick up
behind her.
I would add one line for the new wrinkle
by her left eye
when she smiles
and another for the row of peas
she just planted.
I would draw the sweeping sky at the top,
and the sure earth at the bottom.
If there’s enough room I’d squeeze me
and Kathy in, too,
holding bunches of bean sprouts
in our hands
as we prepare for dinner.

The flowers on Nainai’s shirt match the ones that grow
by the front door.
I don’t know the word for it
but I know Baba does.

This is work

My teacher told me I’m talented
I said you should have been there
when I skipped class last week.

I let a lady bug use me as a bridge
And drank tea with the night sky.

Hard skills are discomfort,
mixing paint,
and walks in the park.
Soft skills are for men in engineering.

I told him my intentions are clear:
To love each of my friends and to always
sleep well.

The corn that used to grow

I wish I could have met you
outside of a memory
And that time
did not hold us.

Parallel lines never intersect
But they keep each other good company.

After the rain fell,
I could smell
the Earth
My nose pushed close to
Hopes
compressed to
the base of my belly.

And when the sun rose,
I beamed
Nainai called for me
and the leaves stretched their limbs
to call back.

I ask Baba: “Did you dream of fresh corn this week?
Or just eat it?”

I owe you an apology

I can’t remember what for,
but I promise I’m sorry.

Nainai knows which grasses will grow again
in the springtime
I know they all flower in the thickness
of her accent.

I wait until the snow melts
to see
with my eyes.

Does it take religion to trust the seasons?
Or just believing in yourself?

Do bears mistake death
for hiberation?
Like the way I mistook winter
for December?

//

Corn season passed again
And still,
This project only exists planned in my head.
I hope my memories last until next year.
I hope everything is still as it was last year.

I don’t know why I’m never in line with the seasons—
LIke how my hands are clumsy holding 保定求 ...corny!!!
and how I still burn myself filtering tea.
I need to go HOME and I need to start a GARDEN!

(I plan to only consume corn
from my garden and never from the supermarket ever again.)
wow very cool you made your
corn poem shaped like corn