With thanks to NaPoWriMo for the prompt:
This country is a child with a grandfather’s
history
and here, I am a newborn.
So the light blinds, life’s soundtrack
deafens, each new smell becomes
an instant shared taste while phantom
electrics prickle my flesh.
I feel the smells. I taste the lights and
the sounds
dance in the air.
In Táiwān, my name is Freedom. Zìyóu. from the
motto of Clan Wallace,
and here, I am a grandmother.
Who on this earth loves their chains?
My whip is only three or four horses;
because of this I am always outdoors.
“Nǐ hǎo,” they say, or if they really mean it, “Lí hé.”
The genuine greeting of a people mixplaced.
Snaking roads take you straight to where
you should be
and I fly with my horses to every home I
find.
Zìyóu and her
tiny team of horses
will never tire of traveling here,
this raucous country, these patient
beaches, these smoking hills.
Born 150 degrees from here but this is my
home.
Lí chia̍h pá bōe? Chia̍h pá-ah!
My three horses together are one humble
scooter, carrying me like a newborn,
a grandmother, feeling the language on
electric skin.
