“Tayaki Elegy,” by Cynthia Gan

Tayaki Elegy

Rust smells sharp, as does crumbling foliage
and stinging taste of childhood on my tongue.
My mother returns from the Asian supermarket,
bearing plastic bags of sticky haw and
ice-cream fish. She sits
with me on the carpet, unwrapping fruit and
placing sacrifice between forgetful teeth.
 
//
 
I tongue gossamer memories, am
reminded of the creases in my knuckles and just
how far they have travelled to meet me
in this strange and foreign land;
my mother tells me, do not be
afraid: 不要怕
and I learn of the dichotomy between
heart, and mouth I speak with.

About Cynthia Gan

Cynthia Gan is seventeen years old from Vancouver, Canada. Her work has previously been recognized by the CBC and the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards as a National Gold Medalist in poetry. She enjoys (poorly) making latte art.