Poems
Woman’s Work
The matchmaker lines up lunar birth dates, inspects the girl for strange marks or the presence of illness. The girl is good. “There is a family,” the matchmaker says, and so it is arranged. When the girl is twelve, maybe thirteen or fourteen, she leaves her home in the village and goes to his. She is presented simply. This is ––– from the house of –––. The ceremony is brief. Stand here. Kowtow. Repeat. The boy is six, maybe seven. It is her duty to look after him, her future husband, her young charge. She helps with chores, she serves his parents—she cannot see her short future. She does not know what lies ahead, her splintered self, her sacrifice. The girl thinks, Marriage isn’t difficult. This work is not so hard. They play hopping chicken or knucklebones, catch crickets in cupped hands, housing them in small boxes, coaxing them to sing.