Incense -- poetry by Hannah Yang

Kētóu, my parents mutter, 

words echoing in the silent temple.

My knees fold onto a blood-red cushion

& I look up at the golden statue—

head bowing, eyes closing, mouth murmuring.

Kuàiná, they add,

standing by the candles and incense.

I dip the red side into the flame, seeing myself in it

& when it catches, I hold it between my palms—

head bowing, eyes closing, mouth murmuring.

Kànwǒ, they whisper,

I raise my head to glimpse them.

They’re orbs of existence in a pitch-black space

& I ask them for blessings—

head bowing, eyes closing, mouth murmuring.

Wèishá, they ask,

why do you deserve good fortune?

Because I need reassurance, life looming,

a future too far for certainty, too close to lose—

head bowing, eyes closing, mouth murmuring.

Jiùzhè? they question,

& my heart thumps faster.

If I have no guarantee for a life, should I live

even with this fear burning me at a stake—

head bowing, eyes closing, mouth trembling.

Bǎobèi? my parents ask,

& I find the incense burnt half-down.

With sweaty palms I stick it into the ash, wisping

smoke with all the other sticks—

head up, eyes open, mouth moving.

Bàoqiàn, I say,

both to my parents & myself.

I glance back at the towering golden statue,

thinking if these gods even care—

if they would even bother

Zàijiàn, I mutter,

leaving the bubble of silence.

I feel my hope burning with the incense,

a fiery testament to my desperation—

& the smoke may fade with my fleeting hope.

Kētóu, Kowtow

Kuàiná, Quickly come get it

Kànwǒ, Look at me

Wèishá, Why

Jiùzhè, Just this

Bǎobèi, Any affectionate nickname for your child

Bàoqiàn, Sorry

Zàijiàn, Goodbye

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Hannah Yang is a high schooler in Los Angeles, California. She loves competing in speech and debate, volunteering at local student centers, and reading Daniel Keyes and poetry in her free time. She is also a Scholastic Art & Writing Gold Medalist and also has earned Gold/Silver Keys, and Honorable Mentions.