Scrapbook Dreams

Scrapbook Dreams

Lillian Fu | Art by Grace Lu

Sometimes, I will take a breath of clean air

           and be reminded of open plains 

           and fair-haired earth, a sky Demeter painted

           while thinking about a nest of robin eggs,

           how I waded through tall grass swaying

           and walked to the horizon.

Sometimes, I will stare out the kitchen window

           and remember curtains of viridian willow boughs

           hiding crumbling stone steps, steeping

           with thousand-year roots in Guanyin’s tea kettle,

           how I climbed that stair to the willow’s trunk

           and faced the phoenix’s soft sun.


Once, I woke on top of a mountain capped with snow,

           and all before me was light, an overexposed

           photo of the world above the clouds,

           captured through eyes stinging with cold wind.

           I raised my arms up like a pirate ship’s figurehead

           and became my own stolen breath.

Once, I met a girl with lips folded from peach blossoms,

           and she smiled in a way that squeezed cherries

           against the bulbs of her cheeks, heat in mine,

           her dark eyes two sea-smoothed stones.

           I let her take me by the hand and lead me to the bay,

           where she laughs, kisses me, and evaporates.


Always, I sink into waking as slowly as I can,

           and cherish the lingering moments

           that find home in the pockets of my soul.