Wutong Rain, Beijing-USA-UK
It is the season to open your palms
It is the season to open your palms. All of the palms
in fine fibrils and veins, to show that you exist
for the bumble bees that are always in a hurry, and each raindrop that is as heavy.
No breeze is so gentle, so you are bent
by your own murmurs and joy, while arms raised
like all the other shyest flowers, hiding their desires
to be ravaged—
And the season is suddenly brimmed with angst,
shadows red in large blooms, gushing forth
petal after petal, unheeded
as no huddle will last
no flower is hesitant to let go
in full force
like all the other frail things
relieved, triumphant, as crumbled.
Moon Song
There are women shouting down the alley, loud and clear like full moons. Soon
the wind comes and the voices scattered. “Moon-moon, come into my room
whenever you please!” I beg and they say, “Just a moment, I will be with you
all night.”
I wait and wait at the windowpane. They pedal
trailing the sleeps they stole. By dawn
it is a smeared pastel white, the wind smoothing
the last ruffles. The full moons have dissolved
into the sky, each seagull a crescent reminiscing what’s left
of the one colossal memory.
For the days to come, the clouds imitate
the moons, the sun may have kidnapped
the moons, it rumours that
a moon is a blue balloon indistinguishable
from the sky, and the sky an empty socket
of the blind.
If I say loud enough—Moon!—the moon will probably hear. The women
down the alley complain, “Look, there is no need to be loud. The moons hear
anyway. They see everything—even if you are not speaking, the moons know.”
Behind me are stars, or Mars
“You are not as big and bright as the moons, but you know
you are beautiful too, right?”
“They are much bigger and brighter than the moons!”
The women chuckle. I blink
my primitive eyes. Next to me a lamppost
raining spider webs, a glorious moon
to the moths, right across the thin glass
so close you can touch.
Moon! Moon! I am spun
round and round and I shout
down the alley, loud and clear.
Wutong Rain grew up in Beijing, moved to the USA for education, and is currently residing in the UK. She loves to write and is passionate about seeking ways to express herself, including piano and photography. Her works have appeared in The Banyan Review and The Tiger Moth Review. She is a nominee for the Pushcart Prize 2021.