In the Absence of Sparrows, I Learn to Stop Hearing Sparrows, and: When I write heart I mean

In the Absence of Sparrows, I Learn to Stop Hearing Sparrows

once, drunk, I tripped into the fire and sawsparks spitting off my boots and howled hey, Iinvented stars, and Kelly laughed until she peed,and yelled, in outer space, stars are just flying dirt.she meant that if you spend your life awakeningonly to sparrow song, you'll mistakewhatever noise surprises you for the defensive callof small, brown birds from North America.

so for a year in Guizhou, I've only heard sparrows.at breakfast, when I retch, complainmy pastry has a hot dog hid insidethey sing     when I refuse to taste chou dofuthey sing     when I use Miao batik to dry my shoesthey sing     when I hug Zhu Kui without askingthey sing     when she pulls away and stutters like crushed firethey sing     but wait—she stuttered like crushed firethey sting     but wait: she stuttered. like crushed fire.they ring like a hoop struck by a basketball. I swallowpickled breakfast egg, and sparrows warblelike forged iPhones. I read up on farmers beating potsand waving sticks against the sparrowed sky, and sparrowsblare like cars. I read how trucks would overflowwith blood-feathered, shattered wings, and sparrowshushbegins to sound like women sweeping streets. I openmy window and hear sparrowsong—no—I hearjackhammers that rat-a-tat the mountain down.

I listen as Zhu Kui says that since the pest campaign,you hardly see a sparrow here, and a bike wheel whines unlikea sparrow sings. When she offers to French-braid my hairand I say s'il vous plait, her laugh sounds nothing likea sparrow sings. We clamber up the mountain'sexposed flank, light fireworks and laugh, and I whisperto Zhu Kui that stars are fire that I will nevertouch, and I can finally hear nothing singing

When I write heart I mean

to write hearth, but the chalk breaks off.My students draw a line from heart down to my illustration        of a chimneyed fireand say that in America, the hearts are bright.They flicker. If you edge too close, welts rise like diamonds        on your arms.

speech speec

I go to a restaurant with Sunny and Carly, who've taken English        names.I try to say, in Mandarin, that I like ribs, but I say pi instead        of pai, which meansI've told them I like eating sweet and sour butts.They say I'm like a light-eyed panda padding across town: rare,        incomprehensible.

marsh Mars

The waiter brings us ribs, and I recall the youthful Middle        Eastern manwho, pre-lunch on Thursdays at my brother's bar, offered his        resident alien card for I.D.None of us knew how to say his name.Instead of asking, we called him E.T. until the day he moved        away.

booth boot

I ask Sunny and Carly where I can go to learn kung fu. I say        Bruce Lee, Jet Li, Donnie Yen.They laugh, talk low together, lead me to the movie ticket booth.Afterwards they say that kung fu is for kids and elder men.They call me Gongfu Yeye, laughing. They say Kick me, kick me,        Kungfu Grandfather.

cloth clot

My shoes are too impractical, and, walking home, blood leaks         through the sole.Sunny takes me to her family's house. Her mom is watching        game shows on her iPhone.She props it against a peach and keeps her eyes on it as she cups        my heelin her bare palm, pours water, smooths salve like laundered        sheets.The gauze she fastens catches blood the way a hearth hangs onto        heat.