At Yosemite, Dad Suggests Writing a Race Poem

& replacing his name with 爸爸.
            The Mirror Lake’s a frisbee,
or an Oriental court fan.
            The slate crags chambers
for dragon orchestras.
            The dogs with their heads
in the ice aren’t dogs
            anymore—only metaphors
in service of hurt.
            When a kingbird alights
beside a grinning baby,
            I write its wingspan as a strike
of yellow blood. Dad hums
            this through the winter:
good, very good, but / alter good to
            很好. In the white water,
there’s zero flotsam. I still dredge
            up my birth certificate.
Because it’s profitable to liken
            English lettering to
a bloated lifeboat.
            That, or a slow-rotting tongue.
I’m sixteen & understand
            that ethnic drift is the rage. That
ethnic rage is the rage,
            since, nowadays, every Chinese girl’s
got a sonnet crown
            about dumplings.
Here, I mention that
            my wasted Mandarin name
means poet—minutia I can
            contrive to a symbol.
Well, Dad remarks,
            there’s something to be written
about Dead Heritage & Assimilation,
            & though I’m not angry,
I can always artifice the feeling.
            Look: when the sun slumps its rays
against the poplars
            just right, even they become
part of this race poem.
            And yet it’s weeks until spring.
Forgive me: I do love federal heartland.
            & forgive me: when a kingbird alights
beside a grinning baby,
            I only want to think
of the whetted arc of its feathers.
            The wind blustering
over acres.
            Nothing more.