BY ARIA MIAO
My cousin and I have grown up in a chaotic household of kooky Chinese artists, actresses and dancers and television hosts who made our home into their stage after they gave up their dreams to raise us. This is the kind of energy I wanted to capture in this short poem collection—a snapshot of a small, loud family that stole moments to celebrate and convalesce while history raged just outside the window. I hope it transports you to a warm and familiar place.
Illustrated by Gagani Dewundara Liyanawaduge
BIRTHDAY CAKE FROM PHILLY
on monday we
congregate in the night air and
orange deck garnished with
lanterns in imitation scandinavian
for birthday cake from philly.
my uncle my cousin and i
we blow out five candles in a
coven of three and then all six sing
in a faulty garage band:
zhu ni sheng ri kuai le.
zhu ni sheng ri kuai le.
a birthday blessing time four.
matcha layers hold
high airs and moldy strawberries
that my
aunt swears to condemnation in the
high courts of wechat;
we pick both off as my
uncle begs mercy and
savor the good sponge beneath.
still hungry for the kill i
battle my cousin for the life of the
last lantern flame
in cream-soured puffs of breath and
saliva specks
till the dragon eye fruits tremble for their skins and we
draw a truce under the gratitude of a
minuscule fire.
huffing for breath we
watch my grandmother
struggle
with a fruit half-pierced; xing zi shou le
she remarks.
the apricots are ripe.
then we tell ghost stories round the snuffed candle wicks
to make each other laugh.
* * *
DRIED DATES IN THE BASEMENT
one date
two date
red date—
no, just red dates.
two plastic bags of
porridge fodder in the drafty basement,
our refuge for days when the
moisture of the corn field state drives us
underground like badger moles.
it began as a
twinkling inside joke, a
golden chance to disgust
the date-hating cousin who
dared me to pull it through.
but quarantine has made me an
adventurous eater.
now one ziplock wanes thin from its
tributes to a hungry deity and as i
isolate each stringy
pith on the roof of my mouth i
figure how long it will be before my aunt spots the difference.
the best things taste stolen.
* * *
INTERRUPTED HOT POT
hot pot is performance art,
a ritual of
togetherness.
i am here
you are here
we tangle our chopsticks in the
same boiling water;
we are family.
on sunday we
gather round the kitchen table,
one side spicy and
one side plain.
my aunt fills the bubbling
beast to overflowing,
anxious to keep us fed—
but she does not eat.
she is at war.
my uncle plays diplomat five feet
away, dangling truce like a
fresh rice cake and
yet she is no gourmand for peace.
so soon they are as
children squabbling over the
last fishball of righteousness—
her dresses, his gadgets—but we laugh because
they are children only, and
hungry children howl.
there is a natural order to hot pot.
first you load your bowl with
all walks of goodies, but there are
always noodles at the end to
sop up your bean curd sauce.
we make an exception today, us three
caught in the middle.
and we leave them there,
hot pot in between.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ARIA MIAO • UNITED STATES
A New Jersey-born girl with an extremely Chinese upbringing, The Red Goji emerged in Aria's brain as she dispensed Asian goodies to her friends in a middle school cafeteria. She later executed that idea during the COVID-19 pandemic of 2020, motivated largely by loneliness and ennui. During her moments of unproductivity, Aria likes to watch k-dramas, read old books, and make flaky pastries. Currently lives in the U.S.