from north of the earth
Dong Li
his father
put his feet on the pedal of the sewing machine his mother stitched soles for
his first shoes
shouting tired their days quiet nights the parents watched over him and he watched them by the flickering lamplight whose wick was thin enough to go through a needle hole light lit again scattering blue on the mountain the guards dozed through night
jumping off bed he strode with arms raised shoulder high a swing of a left arm another swing of a right arm he walked with a straight spine onto the stage for the recitation competition people could barely see him from behind other people and their black and gray hair they stretched their necks to watch between heads they watched on the red benches their hands thumping on the benches laughter turned into hands clapping thunder he felt like drowning in this season of dried throats and tightened foreheads
the sea dragon earned his name he clutched the red book close to the heart
he was the smallest child in school a few boards nailed to the bench so he did not have to stand throughout the day now his feet dangled in midair
now his feet slowly touched ground
when the child was a bigger child he stepped on dew into morning fog
when the child was still a child he picked ragweed before school a bamboo basket on his shoulder which was used to carry his two sisters which he did not know when the ragweed was already picked by the rice fields he went farther to the village edge then uphill on the mountain where his two sisters were rotten which he did not know upon closer look ragweed was all rotten in the center but where green still rang around the same pupilless ragweed everywhere on the mountain then he heard thunder then he heard school bell ringing in the far distance he looked over the village over the edge of the sky which looked like ocean churning waves upon waves his heart sank downhill
he ran and ran ragweed flew out of his basket and traced his steps in the rain in the softened soil in the full moons that he had missed west of the sky
no one looked away from their hands as he ran breathlessly home
it was not yet night
moving the wok lid he ladled some water from the vat dumped it into the wok lit a fire in the stove rice clumps slowly softened and absorbed warmed water rice churned thick in the wok he washed a sweet potato and a carrot lying in the corner his teeth munched on covering strange belly sounds that died away in the ears as mud dried and grayed on his shoes
the sea dragon king of boy children he took them to the pond after their soldier fight the victors pasted mud mustaches above the lips of the losers then they slid into the pond mud dripped in the splashing of water the parents came to the edge of the pond they called their names they waved their hands the children plunged underwater to the middle of the pond made faces toward the parents tearing their trembling voices people gathered around the pond his head surfaced above water his eyes caught in the quiet distance where the mountain glowed with lush ragweed dead at the center his legs stopped kicking he was sliding under in the water headless bodies bent in all directions he breathed in water and his nose twitched sour tingling down his spine he swung his arms frantically mud churned from under and water rose and beat upon the pond edge the parents looked at the distance between the waves and their shoes now their heads popped and disappeared in wave wrinkles now the forehead wrinkles of their parents straightened by the pond edge when the children elbowed their bodies out of the water their bare buttocks glistened in the slanting twilight
his mother dipped his left foot in ink to keep him away from the pond then his belly bawled he and other children had churned in the mud underwater for lotus roots the turbid pond the white lotus above water still firm in their clutching hands
bound on the high bench by the doorway his arms and legs hanging head tilted away from the house buttocks facing the sky bursting red under a bamboo washboard his arms swam frantically in his cries in his tears in the days he could barely walk again
his mother sobbed and begged him not to swim in the pond again underwater there was a water monkey that would drag swimmers into mounds underneath and stuff their eyes noses ears and mouths with mud until breath gone flesh soft body heavy in the shit world again
so he played a crackle mud game with other children a palm of dripping mud and the other hand over the opened palm and breath blown into the opening of hands every child threw the palm of mud with all his strength to the ground mud crackled the loudest the winner in the loud crackling ghost cries were heard and those who were pulled and drowned by the water monkey were released to the living world again to become a child again the village elderly said
from a distance the piles of mud left by the children looked like young breasts of girls in the rainy field when their mudstained shirts became transparent then mud dried and cracked off skin
then rain then mud gathered into small mounds after nameless mounds beyond the village edge
boy children came one after another as other boy children left the village for the north and farther north across the border they never returned most of them rotted in rivers on leveled grounds the earth covered them the earth absorbed them until they were one with it and long forgotten by their classmates and playmates who followed the steps of their parents into a rice field into a dream like flood summer was never far
heated flood under a blazing sun legs lead heavy in the underwater then mud then murked mind the double rush rolled blurring day and night every head lowered every back bent every cheek burning
was summer the cruelest moons of the year
his mother had never walked out of the village the nearby town and the county cooperative were the edge of the family world only once was the boy child treading on the mountain where ghost fires overlooking the village hung on their roofs at night
the red book was never opened again the elderly in the village collected it from every family red was the color of their days that they remembered in their dried eyes baking in the red sun
they rose at noon from their benches with a book in hand they waved to their sons and daughters laboring in the field they waved the red book to call them back to eat
his mother threw up his father lost his appetite then they got used to eating as red faded in the waving wind between the rusty elderly fingers
by the pond he opened a book then another book all the books flipped on the rotten benches from the school yard from between the branches from heads of littered birds chirping their eyes out
red paint crisped and slowly peeled off the bench boards the books brittled before summer cicadas rattled before frogs blew up their throats like balloons
frogs remembered the way they left the pond where they were born
did the child remember his red words on the red stage
frogs threw up their entire stomach and wiped it clean with their legs before they left the pond
was the mind ever clean of words
before he cleaned mud off his shoes he was there by the pond with his books
no shed skin no waterproof cocoons underwater frogs turned from tadpoles ready to breathe on land to feed on beetles and caterpillars in shrubs and trees they listened big round ears on the sides of their heads lungs squeezed with nostrils mouths shut they squatted eyes bulged with lids closed to light no sound from the ballooning vocal sacs
in the darkly quiet pond tadpoles turned into frogs
no one said a word when the boy children were sent out of the village across a border to the north the same sun rose above a river which reflected a red that grew thick in the river bodies in mud heads in the water waving like seaweeds bleached vaguely blue
no one wrote another character on the cracked walls red characters crossed black or white bodies graven in the faraway river
a new line of nameless mounds by the village edge the night blooming cereus rioted
an army of frogs jumped from head to head another army of frogs hid under torn skin the pond sucked in all the light and turned grayly black
nothing was reflected not a face not red nothing stared back
in the flipping of white pages black characters flew out of books into his blank mind
a mind to be written a washed mind to be written over
shouting tired their days quiet nights the parents watched over him and he watched them by the flickering lamplight whose wick was thin enough to go through a needle hole light lit again scattering blue on the mountain the guards dozed through night
jumping off bed he strode with arms raised shoulder high a swing of a left arm another swing of a right arm he walked with a straight spine onto the stage for the recitation competition people could barely see him from behind other people and their black and gray hair they stretched their necks to watch between heads they watched on the red benches their hands thumping on the benches laughter turned into hands clapping thunder he felt like drowning in this season of dried throats and tightened foreheads
the sea dragon earned his name he clutched the red book close to the heart
he was the smallest child in school a few boards nailed to the bench so he did not have to stand throughout the day now his feet dangled in midair
now his feet slowly touched ground
when the child was a bigger child he stepped on dew into morning fog
when the child was still a child he picked ragweed before school a bamboo basket on his shoulder which was used to carry his two sisters which he did not know when the ragweed was already picked by the rice fields he went farther to the village edge then uphill on the mountain where his two sisters were rotten which he did not know upon closer look ragweed was all rotten in the center but where green still rang around the same pupilless ragweed everywhere on the mountain then he heard thunder then he heard school bell ringing in the far distance he looked over the village over the edge of the sky which looked like ocean churning waves upon waves his heart sank downhill
he ran and ran ragweed flew out of his basket and traced his steps in the rain in the softened soil in the full moons that he had missed west of the sky
no one looked away from their hands as he ran breathlessly home
it was not yet night
moving the wok lid he ladled some water from the vat dumped it into the wok lit a fire in the stove rice clumps slowly softened and absorbed warmed water rice churned thick in the wok he washed a sweet potato and a carrot lying in the corner his teeth munched on covering strange belly sounds that died away in the ears as mud dried and grayed on his shoes
the sea dragon king of boy children he took them to the pond after their soldier fight the victors pasted mud mustaches above the lips of the losers then they slid into the pond mud dripped in the splashing of water the parents came to the edge of the pond they called their names they waved their hands the children plunged underwater to the middle of the pond made faces toward the parents tearing their trembling voices people gathered around the pond his head surfaced above water his eyes caught in the quiet distance where the mountain glowed with lush ragweed dead at the center his legs stopped kicking he was sliding under in the water headless bodies bent in all directions he breathed in water and his nose twitched sour tingling down his spine he swung his arms frantically mud churned from under and water rose and beat upon the pond edge the parents looked at the distance between the waves and their shoes now their heads popped and disappeared in wave wrinkles now the forehead wrinkles of their parents straightened by the pond edge when the children elbowed their bodies out of the water their bare buttocks glistened in the slanting twilight
his mother dipped his left foot in ink to keep him away from the pond then his belly bawled he and other children had churned in the mud underwater for lotus roots the turbid pond the white lotus above water still firm in their clutching hands
bound on the high bench by the doorway his arms and legs hanging head tilted away from the house buttocks facing the sky bursting red under a bamboo washboard his arms swam frantically in his cries in his tears in the days he could barely walk again
his mother sobbed and begged him not to swim in the pond again underwater there was a water monkey that would drag swimmers into mounds underneath and stuff their eyes noses ears and mouths with mud until breath gone flesh soft body heavy in the shit world again
so he played a crackle mud game with other children a palm of dripping mud and the other hand over the opened palm and breath blown into the opening of hands every child threw the palm of mud with all his strength to the ground mud crackled the loudest the winner in the loud crackling ghost cries were heard and those who were pulled and drowned by the water monkey were released to the living world again to become a child again the village elderly said
from a distance the piles of mud left by the children looked like young breasts of girls in the rainy field when their mudstained shirts became transparent then mud dried and cracked off skin
then rain then mud gathered into small mounds after nameless mounds beyond the village edge
boy children came one after another as other boy children left the village for the north and farther north across the border they never returned most of them rotted in rivers on leveled grounds the earth covered them the earth absorbed them until they were one with it and long forgotten by their classmates and playmates who followed the steps of their parents into a rice field into a dream like flood summer was never far
heated flood under a blazing sun legs lead heavy in the underwater then mud then murked mind the double rush rolled blurring day and night every head lowered every back bent every cheek burning
was summer the cruelest moons of the year
his mother had never walked out of the village the nearby town and the county cooperative were the edge of the family world only once was the boy child treading on the mountain where ghost fires overlooking the village hung on their roofs at night
the red book was never opened again the elderly in the village collected it from every family red was the color of their days that they remembered in their dried eyes baking in the red sun
they rose at noon from their benches with a book in hand they waved to their sons and daughters laboring in the field they waved the red book to call them back to eat
his mother threw up his father lost his appetite then they got used to eating as red faded in the waving wind between the rusty elderly fingers
by the pond he opened a book then another book all the books flipped on the rotten benches from the school yard from between the branches from heads of littered birds chirping their eyes out
red paint crisped and slowly peeled off the bench boards the books brittled before summer cicadas rattled before frogs blew up their throats like balloons
frogs remembered the way they left the pond where they were born
did the child remember his red words on the red stage
frogs threw up their entire stomach and wiped it clean with their legs before they left the pond
was the mind ever clean of words
before he cleaned mud off his shoes he was there by the pond with his books
no shed skin no waterproof cocoons underwater frogs turned from tadpoles ready to breathe on land to feed on beetles and caterpillars in shrubs and trees they listened big round ears on the sides of their heads lungs squeezed with nostrils mouths shut they squatted eyes bulged with lids closed to light no sound from the ballooning vocal sacs
in the darkly quiet pond tadpoles turned into frogs
no one said a word when the boy children were sent out of the village across a border to the north the same sun rose above a river which reflected a red that grew thick in the river bodies in mud heads in the water waving like seaweeds bleached vaguely blue
no one wrote another character on the cracked walls red characters crossed black or white bodies graven in the faraway river
a new line of nameless mounds by the village edge the night blooming cereus rioted
an army of frogs jumped from head to head another army of frogs hid under torn skin the pond sucked in all the light and turned grayly black
nothing was reflected not a face not red nothing stared back
in the flipping of white pages black characters flew out of books into his blank mind
a mind to be written a washed mind to be written over
Dong Li is a multilingual author who translates from Chinese, English, French, and German. His debut poetry collection, The Orange Tree (University of Chicago Press, 2023), was the inaugural winner of the Phoenix Emerging Poet Book Prize and a finalist for the Poetry Society of America’s T.S. Eliot Four Quartets Prize. He currently lives in Leipzig, Germany.