"Untitled" by Jing Lin
Two poems by Laurel Chen
passage
every grammarian i know struggles with loss
every grandmother i lose to sound was born
out of violence there is no language i have
tongued that didn’t shove itself down my throat
no paper i’ve torn enough to make an ocean
in my wake i lie awake in a nation naked
with grief tried to build a passport from sheets
of water felt statelessness a slippage
of wet ghosts in my sleep if language is a vessel
then all my laments are still at sea
water precipitates every leaving i hear soft thunder
in the distance must have been a country
a storm nothing but a thousand ancestors
murmuring their sureness through rain
i’ve been told relief feels
like spring but i am expecting showers
we cannot walk on water but we’ve learned
to wait through it
stronghold my patience for
an unpronounceable passing inconsolable
uncrossable ocean i weather every word
if i close my eyes hard enough
i can almost see another shoreline
standing across the tide we’ve waited for so long
i know this much but give me a sign
saltwater steady a whisper
promise i am listening
every grandmother i lose to sound was born
out of violence there is no language i have
tongued that didn’t shove itself down my throat
no paper i’ve torn enough to make an ocean
in my wake i lie awake in a nation naked
with grief tried to build a passport from sheets
of water felt statelessness a slippage
of wet ghosts in my sleep if language is a vessel
then all my laments are still at sea
water precipitates every leaving i hear soft thunder
in the distance must have been a country
a storm nothing but a thousand ancestors
murmuring their sureness through rain
i’ve been told relief feels
like spring but i am expecting showers
we cannot walk on water but we’ve learned
to wait through it
stronghold my patience for
an unpronounceable passing inconsolable
uncrossable ocean i weather every word
if i close my eyes hard enough
i can almost see another shoreline
standing across the tide we’ve waited for so long
i know this much but give me a sign
saltwater steady a whisper
promise i am listening
know your rights (redux)
KNOW YOUR RIGHTS.
I do not wish to speak with you, answer your questions, or hand you
any documents based on my constitutional rights. I do not give you permission
to enter my home based on my rights under the US constitution unless you have
a warrant to enter, signed by a judge with my name on it that you slide under
the door. I do not give you permission to search any of my belongings based on
my rights.
I choose to exercise my constitutional rights.
i do not wish to speak. you, answer your questions.
hand me any documents based on constitution.
my constitutional rights. your constitution.
my rights do not wish to speak. i do not give you
the right to enter. do not slide under the door.
do not enter my home based on my rights
a warrant is not permission. search under the US
the constitution not a judge. not an answer
i choose to exercise my rights. give me permission
to my home. hand me my documents
signed with my name on it i choose
to speak with my right name i exercise
my permission my rights to my name
my name a warrant to enter
my name my belonging
my name documents my permission
my home the door with my name on it
I do not wish to speak with you, answer your questions, or hand you
any documents based on my constitutional rights. I do not give you permission
to enter my home based on my rights under the US constitution unless you have
a warrant to enter, signed by a judge with my name on it that you slide under
the door. I do not give you permission to search any of my belongings based on
my rights.
I choose to exercise my constitutional rights.
i do not wish to speak. you, answer your questions.
hand me any documents based on constitution.
my constitutional rights. your constitution.
my rights do not wish to speak. i do not give you
the right to enter. do not slide under the door.
do not enter my home based on my rights
a warrant is not permission. search under the US
the constitution not a judge. not an answer
i choose to exercise my rights. give me permission
to my home. hand me my documents
signed with my name on it i choose
to speak with my right name i exercise
my permission my rights to my name
my name a warrant to enter
my name my belonging
my name documents my permission
my home the door with my name on it
Laurel Chen is a prison abolitionist and a migrant writer from Taiwan, currently living in the San Francisco Bay Area.
In her mysterious monochromatic photographs, Jing Lin reconstructs a familiar world that no one has been to. Her background in motion pictures informs her current work. As a graduate photography student at Academy of Art University, she worked with multiple darkroom techniques in traditional and alternative printing processes. She blurs the edge between photography and painting through the use of experimental processes. Solitary, Jing’s most recent body of work, portrays a nonexistent place to examine the theme of self-confinement. Constantly, she explores photography with these questions in mind: What did I see? What did I not see? www.jinglinphotography.com/
Chinese, b. 1993, Chengdu, China, based in San Francisco, USA.
Chinese, b. 1993, Chengdu, China, based in San Francisco, USA.
