Inheritance — Shiyu Zheng

Here is another family gathering tonight. At the table,
men laugh and bellow through clouds of smoke,
chopsticks clanging against porcelain.
We huddle at the side, peeling tangerines,
listening as their voices press against the walls.

Grandfather sits in the middle of them all,
callused fingers clenched around his glass of wine.
Beneath that broad hand lies the purpled flesh of our lives:
blanched and clammy, steeped in sweat.

His laughter rolls over us all, thick river silt weighing over
the room like slick stone. We unroll our smiles to offer our bones.

Fear recedes like the cigarettes he snaps from their pack and lets fall,
embered, then crushed under heel.

Grandfather's words have gone bad like his sour breath.
The Min Nan lilt from his humid, seaside town
clings to each syllable, hooks into his swollen gums.
Bits of pork caught and gnashed between his yellowed teeth.

A man slams a mahjong tile like a threat,
a woman's voice screeches into static,
yelling for water. A fist finds contact
while a chicken's neck snaps behind the butcher’s stall.

The men and their anger bloom like mildew on the walls,
jabbing and shoving, shouting over debts, wives,
old grudges, somebody else's son, his success.
Their voices slap thick phlegm into the air,
a fug of liquor choking the same old thirst.

The air swells as I eye the reddened faces of my uncles,
listen to their slur of noise. A torrent of heat rises in my throat,
and like any good daughter, I swallow.

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Shiyu is a contradictory runaround. She is an athlete in motion, a musical lover with a terrible voice, an apple enthusiast, and a falsely nostalgic historian. In her free time, she enjoys scribbling, listening to music, and bouncing to Queen behind a locked door. She is an alumna of the Sewanee Young Writers' Conference, and her most recent works are forthcoming in The Blue Marble Review and the Eunoia Review.