Genealogy

孙女, beware of how ancestry
swims from mouth to mouth—

let’s trace our myth back two
generations. Follow the otter: curve
of a paw, crushed bird egg, bellies

up an oxbow lake. The girl crawls
onto shore, ruined nose. She

began from ending, Gingko tree withou
trunk, branches floating above

rupture, shooting sideways in different
directions, splitting her bloodline,
our last name. In one retelling, the doctors

found multiple bird records inside
the crib but no baby. According

to my mother, there is no story,
just rice fields, war approaching

our farmland, ground shaking
its legs, marketplace sinking into
orange ink. How this flashback

flickers in my palm: two boys
crouched in prayer, temple bell

chiming, fossil and bone. Take one
step forward—see children playing yoyo
under a moonbow seventy years later.

No one remembers this village,
only how to reconstruct from calamity,

renovate rubble, rub rub rub.
Do not grieve for the hero who
rewrote a soldier’s body as enemy.

Sand in his hair, the soldier hoped
for a gentle splash, a lifeboat,

a route back to boyhood. I am afraid
my body can no longer repeat
these words. This is my final hope—

granddaughter, drink a sip of this
ginger root tea. When you are done,

remember. Fetch me a washcloth
for your ears.

5, 6, 7, 8

Nothing happened today, but I found our pocket of unchecked boxes in my palms: Banker Ponies, grabbing pancakes by the pier, matching paddleboards, rollick & roll, row & splash. We’re skipping across Highway 12, my flip-flop slips away in seconds, the wind flicking it forwards—you join a game of frisbee & I hop behind. The father celebrates his son’s first catch, rods & buckets lining up beside the dock & we scream to catch the beach ball in unison. When the royal terns turn their heads with scorn, I laugh louder. Zing, zip, zing. You imitate their posture for the entire afternoon. I’ll release celebrating my birthday into the waters, anytime. Anytime, if the Perseids can take me to a crash-landing onto these islands. How Outer Banks curves like an eyebrow against the map. Rhapsody scribbled over the Atlantic Sea, the guitar reverbs out photons & just like that, summer’s almost gone. The waning crescent trapped in its own wanting. The lighthouse pointing toward phantom noise. You cup your hands into the sand & save Fridays from falling into the arms of a gorge. When I blink, I’m standing beside you. You, clasping your hands together, about to hang glide across Kitty Hawk. 3, 2, 1. You take off & end your wish with a please. I trust next year, for something to come true.

孙女 (sun nu) - granddaughter

Chelsea Zhu is a writer from Maryland recognized by YoungArts and the Poetry Society. She loves strawberry smoothies, stargazing, and swimming.