"House with a Personality" by Prachi Valechha
Self-Portrait as Chang'e by Amy Zhou
I.
I crack parched rice into a thousand
pieces, drop an egg on the floor.
I am spilled yellow and oil-spill
eyes, jade knuckles sharpened with cutting.
I spread my palms open sometimes
to make them speak. They do not speak.
Hou Yi sees me and slaps my hands
closed.
Hou Yi wants steamed fish for dinner so I
give it to him. He wants rice wine, too,
and children. Hou Yi wants a child,
so I give a daughter to him,
whose hands are so small they cannot
curl into fists. Hou Yi wants a son,
not a daughter. So I give him a son,
whose palms open wide.
Hou Yi does not close them,
he lets them sing.
Hou Yi wants the sky and I weep
because I cannot give it to him.
He wants nine suns for dinner
so he hunts them down like beasts.
Hou Yi’s arrows sling through red weather
in coils before the suns fall
like snow. My daughter hears the suns’ dying
breaths and she starts crying, cold
to the touch. Hou Yi slaps her mouth
closed.
There is only one sun left. Hou Yi spares one,
but only because it is a father.
Oil circles the kitchen air as the nine suns roll
in steam. My eyes water but I am sure
it is because of the air. The suns
crack into a thousand embers.
II.
When the night burns raw, mountains
start growing teeth.
Silver ink spreads across the sky like an angel.
Or canary. But Hou Yi is too busy eating
to hear tigers roam the land, tattered
with forgotten dignity.
Hou Yi is too busy eating to hear me
enter his room and search under his bed.
I find the white bottle and drink
all of the immortality elixir until my belly
burns like a small sun. My hands shudder
so violently that the bottle falls, white clay
cracking into a thousand pieces. How they scatter
like snow onto the floor.
Hou Yi does not see me rising, immortal
and etched with years and tides. He does not see
the way lanterns burn into red skies or how snow
shreds mountains into light. He does not see me
vaporize into mists, a soundless,
singing body. I spread my palms open like lungs
and eat the heat like a moon.
I crack parched rice into a thousand
pieces, drop an egg on the floor.
I am spilled yellow and oil-spill
eyes, jade knuckles sharpened with cutting.
I spread my palms open sometimes
to make them speak. They do not speak.
Hou Yi sees me and slaps my hands
closed.
Hou Yi wants steamed fish for dinner so I
give it to him. He wants rice wine, too,
and children. Hou Yi wants a child,
so I give a daughter to him,
whose hands are so small they cannot
curl into fists. Hou Yi wants a son,
not a daughter. So I give him a son,
whose palms open wide.
Hou Yi does not close them,
he lets them sing.
Hou Yi wants the sky and I weep
because I cannot give it to him.
He wants nine suns for dinner
so he hunts them down like beasts.
Hou Yi’s arrows sling through red weather
in coils before the suns fall
like snow. My daughter hears the suns’ dying
breaths and she starts crying, cold
to the touch. Hou Yi slaps her mouth
closed.
There is only one sun left. Hou Yi spares one,
but only because it is a father.
Oil circles the kitchen air as the nine suns roll
in steam. My eyes water but I am sure
it is because of the air. The suns
crack into a thousand embers.
II.
When the night burns raw, mountains
start growing teeth.
Silver ink spreads across the sky like an angel.
Or canary. But Hou Yi is too busy eating
to hear tigers roam the land, tattered
with forgotten dignity.
Hou Yi is too busy eating to hear me
enter his room and search under his bed.
I find the white bottle and drink
all of the immortality elixir until my belly
burns like a small sun. My hands shudder
so violently that the bottle falls, white clay
cracking into a thousand pieces. How they scatter
like snow onto the floor.
Hou Yi does not see me rising, immortal
and etched with years and tides. He does not see
the way lanterns burn into red skies or how snow
shreds mountains into light. He does not see me
vaporize into mists, a soundless,
singing body. I spread my palms open like lungs
and eat the heat like a moon.
Amy Zhou is an aspiring high school writer from The College Preparatory School in Oakland, California. She has been recognized for her poetry and short fiction by The New York Times, the Alliance for Young Artists and Writers, Frontier Poetry, and Hollins University. She serves as the Editor-in-Chief for her school's newspaper, The Radar, and literary publication, The Steele. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Diode Poetry Journal, PANK Magazine, Eunoia Review, among others.
Prachi Valechha is a freelance cartoonist and animator from India. Valechha loves to make Toons and Toons for Tunes.
You can find more of their work at: instagram.com/rainbowteeth
You can find more of their work at: instagram.com/rainbowteeth
