The Sleep God has kidnapped moms from many families, like a pyramid scheme.
Where is mama taken? The curves of her breasts rise and fall, as she coughs dryly.
Does mama know I am watching her right now?
The Sleep God makes her fly.
Mama’s tune hums about seagulls flying where colorful clouds fly, she comes to an island, right above—
the telephone call from the old island rings at the wrong time by coincidence
looking for my mama, she says she is her in her past
I hold the receiver, an autumn sea breeze gusts through my ear
who is she? She says her body was still deeply buried in the game of piling sand
long hours playing at the beach as a kid made her skin and irises gray like rats
she was a narrow, long island silted-up by the Gaoping River, where fishermen sheltering against typhoons
arrived first, then ocean currents from Meizhou came and re-enshrined Matsu
she was and still is thin like a flagpole, her frozen gaze observing ferries come and go
the telephone call from the old island rings at the wrong time by coincidence
she tells me who she was again, looking for my mama, saying she is her in her past
turns out, old affairs of the island have been telegraphed ever since Guangxu era
precociously operating foreign banks and treaty ports readily skipped the history tests
the spiral mountain road to a lighthouse, tunnels where time lingered, and military planes with lights off
there’s still the option of hiking up and paying penance to old cannons
only the native plants crawling over the sand remained unchanged for a hundred years
she keeps talking in the receiver:
picking the butterfly-shaped Goat Foot leaves was her daily routine
she rushed home as soon as she finished, for she’s a mother rabbit who takes on her roles too soon
her several baby rabbits were the size of dogs; they grew up in a chicken coop
her body of sand was always reshaped by severe weather
magnanimous coastlines could grow into calculating cliffs
yet within ten days, she would again flatten into plains with a broken heart
from windbreaks to breaker zones, she had been silently counting
how many footprints were changing constantly
tides were menstruation of an island
according to this simple natural phenomenon, she mimed a girl’s coming-of-age
at her feet, crabs scuttled sideways like ants
she now moved with polished grace, no more playful flails to send them fleeing about
and if, by chance, she came across a self-assured navy officer dressed in white
striding toward her with a fiddler’s claw
the blushing sea at sunset would know her heart
my palm holding the receiver continues to sweat with the sticky smell of ocean
it pervades into my ear
with the gradually louder sound of turbines mixing fuel oil:
Chug. Chug-chug-chug-chug! the engine trembled the vessel trembled her, she was starting up
listening to the sailor’s ballad, it seemed she was about to leave
where would you go, where would you go?
nothing like an orphan’s wish, she wasn’t going to the bustling Taipei City
where would you go, where would you go? She lazily got up to freshen herself
her minimalistic voyage was like an abstract performance of sailing in Peking Opera
she, she and them were all going to the other side of the breakwater
she, she and them and maybe many more
where would you go where would you go? Wherever you would go everyone would go
they squeezed into the same ship at the same time, rushed to clock in at the Export Processing Zone
seemingly too late to think about why
the inner harbor was like a giant footbath basin, but also only shoulder width
so just step over it, step over
she who always took a nap during sailing
in her dream today, flying sea birds had crows’ feathers
clouds of premonition varnished with long mulberry nails, as if the dusk yesterday
round tidal patterns of the blood red sea tossed up several oily, twisted faces
the sky used the sea as its mirror once again, and she too lowered herself to get close
the sea looked like it was beaten, bruises everywhere
under the mirror, seawater replaced her air
she saw an upside down city
and the chaotic circulation of ghost money
she said she wanted to go back; who swelled up the overturned ship, and who were the salted specters
she said she wanted to go back; deep ocean fish captured one by one
eyeballs popped out from the loss of pressure
she was exchanging dreams with them
people asleep
like anchors lowered deep, deep and deep, until they cannot be any deeper
and lie down quietly, lie down flat on the seabed
she kept reading me a newspaper clipping:
In 1955, the government established the Kaohsiung Cianjhen Export Processing Zone, which attracted many locals for job opportunities. Early in the morning of September 3, 1962, a ferry between Jhongjhou and Cianjhen, named “High School No. 6,” capsized on its way to the city. The twenty-five people who died were mostly female workers from the processing zone who had not yet gotten married. The city government invited local people to discuss the aftermath of the incident and agreed with the families of the victims to bury the twenty-five together, which was called the “Twenty-five Ladies’ Tomb.”
I hold the receiver, the wrecked ship’s turbine still stirs in my ear
that ferry of youth, departed from her mouth
some people died
some people drifted off the ship
she got off the ship, she stepped over
from a maiden’s island to a mother’s shore
she became a bride
