Fabulae

From the Forest of Canes

From the Forest of Canes Precious Consort T’ien, Kiangsai, 1931 Kingfisher Treasure let out her feet a little each night until her lotus hooks, slung like new moons, her perfect bean toes, went flat as doors. My sway-hipped cousin with the precious feet—gone. One less line of doe-prints in the raked stone.  I am not Bound Branch Lotus with her bent body. I am not Morning Lotus who walks on her heels, nor Buddha’s Head Lotus, hunched like the knot on top of Sakyamuni’s head, nor any other sigh. I am Tsu Zhang’s Fruit of June, the arch of my foot doubled into itself, deep as a coin-purse. Four toes broken and bound beneath—buried like caterpillar-heads. I bit the writing brush, prayed to the roe-deer moon for these three-inch feet of a deer. Now by decree I must let them out— and let the blood, unbound, drill back into my toes. I am to bring forth again the pain of binding.  I have not seen my feet since my fifth year. This excites me. My maid binds me weekly, her touch excites me; we who cannot walk grow fat until our sex is sixteen gates, one after another. I have feet soft and round as the dumplings whose water I drank for luck the day I was bound. 5 There are men who drink our foot-washing water, who put our golden feet into their mouths, gathering radishes. Men who steal our red shoes to sleep with on their journeys. Let them try and rest without the scent of our feet, watermelon seeds and almonds placed between the toes.  “How lucky to get a Cantonese wife! A face like jade, large feet like an immortal’s!” I would rather be severed. Let them cut off my feet for the mound in the square— The “peak of golden lotuses!” Let them nail me by my wound toes to a log. That will be another kind of fulfillment. I am still asked for, our devotees are here, even those among the Party, whom Tsu Zhang bribes into the many gift-box rooms of this place.  Desire is the foot with all the beauty of the body: arched like the eyebrow, round like the breast, white like the face. I will be fulfilled in dying, which will be for me a shout. Desire returns in their dreams of our lotus hooks, their dreams of us while we are yet dead or walking about upon the flat lotus boats of country women. 6 ...