April Li
at ten years old you were left
at the dinner table when the floods
came. your father had picked
your mother and sister up, one
under each arm, and run
to the school. when he returned
and saw you still sitting there, all
he said was why are you still
here? forty years later, i learn
this for the first time in the back
of your car, your father dying
somewhere in the city, secrets
tumbling around and spilling
out of your mouth to my dad as you drive
us back to the airport so we can fly away
from the cancer. you think i am asleep.
instead, this is when i learn the resentment
behind your belt and your cruelty, behind
the times you let me snuggle to your warmth
in your bed all summer long, behind
the beijing evenings when you’d roll
your sleeves up and bathe me, your sister’s
child, who for a time was left
at your house at four years old.
April Li is a senior who grew up in Connecticut but considers various places home. When she’s not writing or trying to obtain a degree, you can find her loitering around Costco sample carts or in your local library. She hopes to one day be back pain-free.
