"cityscape" by Fabio Sassi
Vanessa Y. Niu | The Knife Radical:刂 in V Dialogues
别 (bié) / another
Already there is violence in the xylem of
secondness. In the bar of the motel we drink
Chinese liquor & complain about our
half-bloodedness to each other. Your situation
-ship wishes you had blue eyes so her children
might have them, my grandmother wishes
I were paler so she could marry me off to the
vicar’s son. You say that tonight, we are each
other’s anothers. As though we believed that
if we took a cleaver down our bodies &
joined them, our two halves might make one
hua ren. The snow falls outside & already the
night congeals.
前 (qián) / before
I’ve been having nightmares about children
since I was ten. My mother raised me alone,
as did her mother, an origami chain of single
mothers. Except in paper they are born fully
formed. Last night: a pink egg, pulsing
geometric & devoid of wax poetic. A throb,
growing & contracting, a plane of time.
You say you can’t remember the last time you
dreamt because if you think of the past, you
won’t come back. In Chinese, before is the
same character as forward.
到 (dào) / to arrive
Knife (dāo). If your dad taught you anything
before he left, it was that you could open any
thing with a Swiss army knife, & that you
should be afraid of what’s contained inside
the opening. He opened your mother after
your birth & couldn’t find the woman. You
joke that it was a bit of a Cio-Cio-San &
Pinkerton moment. You fiddle with the
napkin your liquor is sweating on. Do you
know how to origami with a Swiss army
knife? What does a chain of Pinkertons look
like? There is the red handle in the place of your
mouth. I don’t know where your conversation
ends.
剧 (jù) / drama
(One elderly woman & one younger.)
E: Thank you for giving me your seat. Do you
speak Chinese? Y: (in Chinese) Do you have
children? E: Children die in eyes like they’re
trapped there. Some kid suffocated in the eye
of a Lunar New Year dragon. Y: I’ve heard of
that. E: Everything can be heard these days.
Even God. (beat) You belong there. Y: I don’t
know. E: No church? (When I said to you that
I don’t even know where I am outside of this
motel, I meant that I could die anywhere &
my death would make it foreign land.)
剩 (shèng) / to leave remainders
The bottom of your tumbler hits the counter
hard and the snow outside trembles. With
your eyes you say that was the last drink for
you. People flit out. We are Maxwell’s demons,
I say, static in time. You hear me but don’t
react. See, I say. Moonfront silence, vacuum
of Madonna playing from a hidden speaker
above the bartender, looking weary. Sweaty
napkin ripped to have a jagged jaw. Let’s get
married, I say. We’re both leftovers. You get to
leave a trail of winter behind you.
Already there is violence in the xylem of
secondness. In the bar of the motel we drink
Chinese liquor & complain about our
half-bloodedness to each other. Your situation
-ship wishes you had blue eyes so her children
might have them, my grandmother wishes
I were paler so she could marry me off to the
vicar’s son. You say that tonight, we are each
other’s anothers. As though we believed that
if we took a cleaver down our bodies &
joined them, our two halves might make one
hua ren. The snow falls outside & already the
night congeals.
前 (qián) / before
I’ve been having nightmares about children
since I was ten. My mother raised me alone,
as did her mother, an origami chain of single
mothers. Except in paper they are born fully
formed. Last night: a pink egg, pulsing
geometric & devoid of wax poetic. A throb,
growing & contracting, a plane of time.
You say you can’t remember the last time you
dreamt because if you think of the past, you
won’t come back. In Chinese, before is the
same character as forward.
到 (dào) / to arrive
Knife (dāo). If your dad taught you anything
before he left, it was that you could open any
thing with a Swiss army knife, & that you
should be afraid of what’s contained inside
the opening. He opened your mother after
your birth & couldn’t find the woman. You
joke that it was a bit of a Cio-Cio-San &
Pinkerton moment. You fiddle with the
napkin your liquor is sweating on. Do you
know how to origami with a Swiss army
knife? What does a chain of Pinkertons look
like? There is the red handle in the place of your
mouth. I don’t know where your conversation
ends.
剧 (jù) / drama
(One elderly woman & one younger.)
E: Thank you for giving me your seat. Do you
speak Chinese? Y: (in Chinese) Do you have
children? E: Children die in eyes like they’re
trapped there. Some kid suffocated in the eye
of a Lunar New Year dragon. Y: I’ve heard of
that. E: Everything can be heard these days.
Even God. (beat) You belong there. Y: I don’t
know. E: No church? (When I said to you that
I don’t even know where I am outside of this
motel, I meant that I could die anywhere &
my death would make it foreign land.)
剩 (shèng) / to leave remainders
The bottom of your tumbler hits the counter
hard and the snow outside trembles. With
your eyes you say that was the last drink for
you. People flit out. We are Maxwell’s demons,
I say, static in time. You hear me but don’t
react. See, I say. Moonfront silence, vacuum
of Madonna playing from a hidden speaker
above the bartender, looking weary. Sweaty
napkin ripped to have a jagged jaw. Let’s get
married, I say. We’re both leftovers. You get to
leave a trail of winter behind you.
Vanessa Y. Niu is a writer and editor from New York City. Her work has been recognized by the Kennedy Center, Teen Vogue, the Guggenheim, Brave New Voices, and NYFW. Off the lined page, her work has been set to music in collaborations with Juilliard and Interlochen composers.
Fabio Sassi is a photographer and acrylic artist. He enjoys imperfections, and reframing the ordinary in his artwork. Fabio lives in Bologna, Italy and his work can be viewed at https://fabiosassi.foliohd.com
