MEMORIES OF A SWAN by He Bingling

MEMORIES OF A SWAN

by He Bingling

One summer, on the way to Swan Lake,

halfway there I turned around.

I truly knew, at night

the darkest lake water

would summon you.

Those fish, with translucent, soft bellies,

lure us towards the lake’s depths.

I am a frog being cooked on low heat,

Hefei has been simmering in me for the past twenty years.

Countless bats fly low in the dusk.

Someone, on a balcony, is growing monks cress,

collecting its seeds.

In that seed is the face of a man grown old.

The past, so bitter, so dark.

But now, we are in late autumn,

and the south fork of Hefei river is slowing down.

I once was sensitive as a gypsy crab,

tramping along in September plying my trade,

no rest, day or night.

People find solace and love

at the water’s edge.  She was nineteen,

and here she offered her first kiss.

In the twinkle of an eye, a little fish broke the surface

and rippled it, shining.

She shyly cupped her face,

her black hair flowing.