A small poem written just before turning off the light and going to bed
when I cannot
inhale
your breath
one lonely
dent remains
in the
i-lands
you have an island on your face
a patch of whiteness
floating across
your right temple
newborn
it blended in your whole skin translucent
a freshly steamed
dumpling wrapper
at three months
the edges started appearing
inconstant at first
blurring in and out of focus
but at nine months
the boundaries are now clear
bays and beaches
harbours and estuaries
defined by a sundrenched golden sea
as your face grows
into its shared history
of rice and olive groves
how strange then
that your island is caused
by a lack of migration
melanocytes
delayed at the border
their luggage misdirected
their families left waiting
now you have an i-land
to explore for yourself
or perhaps a lake
the veins swimming beneath
lithe little fish
what they don’t know about snow
snow in the morning tastes like sugar
and it’s warm if you snort it.
ducks. ducks hate snow
because it blindfolds the grass.
snow grows giants. You walk over it
and your prints get bigger through the day.
roses in snow look like
ladies in furs.
snow doesn’t hide the cracks,
it cushions them.
when snow gets sick, it gets angry
and hard, like ice.
angry snow hurts. It makes
going for a walk scary.
the men in orange jackets take scary snow away.
maybe it goes to prison, maybe they kill it.
the snow that’s left gets old and tired, even the snowmen.
eventually they shrivel up look just like rocks. And that’s the end of the snow
SHE
Brain
you swim
between islands
dive for words
sunken treasure
read the pulsation
of jellyfish
forget you can’t
breathe underwater
what you call memories
others call dreams
sometimes
you reach out
too far
and wake.
Lung
she once learnt
to tell the direction
of the wind
by wetting her finger
holding it up
to the sky
trying to understand
what cold was
now she’s been
to Antarctica
but still
she finds
most navigation
difficult.
Heart
she learnt
the valves
are tethered
like parachutes
that heart attacks
called infarctions
sound like
rude noises
that blood must balance
on both sides
and that
a healthy heart
tilts face upwards
like a question.
Liver
inside the liver
there are many suns
an inland river
ships and towns
factories and abattoirs
smelters and
storage towers
for sugar
a small girl standing
at a frosted window
her finger
drawing
a smiley face
on glass.
Spleen
that first day
she stood alone
in the playground
wet the wood chips
the following week
some big boys
pushed her
she lost her first tooth
after that she learnt
to keep her mouth shut
swallowed
her words whole
later spat them out
in silence.
Kidney
the principle of
countercurrent
exchange is like
two lovers kissing
talking
in tongues
limbs looped
in anticipation
the old Toyota
a warm uterus
to grow
new fruit
new dreams
new life.
How I find the time to write
I collect
small droplets of silence
merge them on my tongue
plant small words like daisies
weave them into garlands
offer this to a woman
diving off a cliff
daisies falling before her
a half circle of nail polish
glinting
on her toes
as she turns
to look back.
Biography Renee Liang
Renee, a second-generation Chinese Kiwi, is a poet, playwright, paediatrician, medical researcher and fiction writer. Renee has collaborated on visual art works, film and music, produced and directed theatre works, worked as a dramaturge, taught creative writing and organized community-based arts initiatives. She organises community arts events such as New Kiwi Women Write, a writing workshop series for migrant women. She contributes to The Big Idea which links NZ's arts community. Renee has written, produced and toured six plays: Lantern, The Bone Feeder, Under The Same Moon, Bubblelands, The Quiet Room, and The First Asian AB. The Two Farting Sisters, a kids’ play, was made with Petit Workshop in 2015.
