Image by Enrique Meseguer
when i pass through the portal
my lips twisted, my cheeks pinched
the electric tingles kissing my
eyelashes and sending light
shocks jangling my jade bangles
i smell the pungent odor of
temple incense and feel
a thousand eyes pressing against
my forehead crowding against my
chest and suddenly
the constriction releases and i pop forth
to the other side, my legs and neck aching
here oils and soy sauce permeate the air
and i look up to a thousand pyramids dotting the
landscape, tall, erect, but not pyramids of compact
sand but strangely green, organic, verdant, dark
leafy, no less
i’ve heard of this place, as thick, greasy air caresses
the goosebumps on my arms, my family has whispered
of sacred edifices that sprouted forth after legendary poet
qu yuan took his own life, some cousins alleged we were secret
descendants, our blood releases a key to unknown worlds
i blink away the doubt, swallow my reservations and
proceed forth
stepping onto the slippery green leaves that cover these
giant, hallowed constructions, i enter and the sounds that
rebound back to me grind deep into my ears, gummy sounds,
provocative smacking, and a low rumble that underscores it all
and a phantom vision fills my head, fish mouths opening and
closing, opening and closing, their membrane lips wrapped
around my neck, clenching in on me, my breath restricted
and i squirm
qu yuan who dared to object, to resist the invading qin, just as i dared
to raise out and object to the policies that were destroying
our lands, to cry out against mistreatment and the destruction of the
sanctity of our rights and i feel, too, the weight closing in on me and here
in the temple of qu yuan, it smells of charred pork, slick animal fat
and the sighs, gurgling sounds of drowning and the viscid lips
of those fearful fish
the ones who pecked at his famed body in the bottom of miluo river
this is where the dissidents come to rest, here the holy temple
that lets them all have what’s coming to them, for better or for worse—
but i am not dead, just passed through the covert portal, i tell myself in
quivering whispers—and as i speak, the pyramid ceilings above me wobble, they
play back my voice whiny and weak, reedy and pathetic, my attempt
at persuasion, at leading, at driving societal transformation a joke, i am no hero
just a poor poet at the bottom of dancing river eddies, being eaten by clueless
mouths who care little of political, human life
the structures wobble again and i look at the roofs, apprehension filling my
gut, the ground below me becomes slush, the grease covers my skin, dripping,
dripping, from the ceiling, ropes of green dangle, vines of some sort, and i grab on
and climb, slip-slodding, my aching fingers as i reach up, moving steadily upward
as the ground collapses
but, i realize i am gaining no height, the vines are unraveling, they are perfumed like
steamed bamboo leaves, the scent wafting into my nostrils, filling up the space before me
and i cannot help but think of glutinous rice dumplings, zongzi
tetrahedrons of savory deliciousness, the local people who came to save
qu yuan, throwing zongzi into miluo river so the fish would eat the dumplings
rather than him
so the people have come out, raced to save me, these pyramids more
tetrahedral that i’ve noticed before, their bamboo leaf varnish unraveling
their spackling of boiled peanuts crumbling, their mortar of sticky rice
melting into a sludge
and the bamboo leaf vine i’m holding collapses too and i am spiraling
downwards into the famed miluo river, past gummy fish mouths, past
the smells of charred pork and electric tingles, my jade bracelets jangling
my clothes wet, my breath caught in my lungs, my senses muting—
and they have saved me
unlike the stories of qu yuan where the body’s drowned
and only the corpse is left for the villagers to recover
i feel the pull of a thousand arms, the ones who speak out, too
and my breath comes alive, my lungs invigorated, my legs kick against choppy
waters and they gather, they pull, they whisper, their voices growing louder, gaining momentum
and they are not the pathetic voices of fear and trepidation,
but they ring emphatic in my ears, grating, demanding
and i fear them, as i fear myself, as i fear our whole political system
will collapse under the weight of their demands
our demands
but i see in their eyes, rice dumplings
sticky, each grain of rice, integrated into another
a system of interconnected pieces, mutually-reliant
pliant but with integrity
my followers hand me a
fragrant wrapped bamboo-leaf
dumpling, i pull at the threads and
the leaves unravel, revealing the structurally
intact core, interlocking grains of rice—
i greedily take a bite, taste grease and
soy sauce and pork
and think about
what’s left to change
