TANK MAN BEFORE EXECUTION

Samantha Hsiung ’23

On June 5, 1989—a day after the Chinese government violently fired on citizens protesting in Tiananmen Square—a Chinese man stood in front a column of military tanks leaving Tiananmen Square. He became a symbol of hope and courage in the face of authoritarianism and was nicknamed “Tank Man.” His identity remains unknown.

I dreamed about the sky yesterday, Ma. The rainwater softening my tongue. Clouds shifting in the wind like curtains. Ma, I cannot see the sky from my cellar. Just blood from my past inmates, carved into the ceiling like breath. There’s so much negative space in this room, Ma. I am left with nothing but distilled memory. Remember: the fireflies feeding on your silk dress. The flag unraveling into a body of gunshot wounds—as red as fortune. Ma, I haven’t had a meal in days. These nights, I gather the dust with my hands. I siphon the sweat of our people & stuff it into my belly, like hunger. As if absence can hold anything. Last night, they asked me what I wanted for my last meal. I wished for jasmine tea & petals from the lotus tree. They laughed in my face. Told me that this is what I’d eat instead: dead flies & bruises. Ma, do you remember the hyacinths from the pond? They lived for four days in spring before fading into the water’s abyss & you cried. I imagine them resurfacing as shadows of your face. Do you still look the same, Ma? Have you slept, Ma? These days, the only face I remember is Mao’s—his portrait with a 50s haircut, reveling in time. Ma. Ma, listen to me. A week ago, I was wearing trousers & a white tee shirt, kissing my daughter goodbye as I left for work at noon. Briefcase in one hand, a bag of takeout in the other. There were bodies scattered across the floor, Ma, like feathers of a sparrow. A field of tanks prepared to harvest the summer’s offspring. I stood at the intersection of the crosswalk, barricading the first tank like a stone corpse. Ma, I climbed up the tank & opened the turret like a coffin. Inside: a boy, around fourteen. A boy, burdened by this country & all its sins. A boy. So I yelled at him to take me, my body, my life. Please, Ma. Don’t come & find me. Let it be me who is killed—not that boy, not my daughter, not the hyacinths. Let it be me who disintegrates into vapor, into silt, into a buried memory. Tonight, Ma, I’ll sleep with a fresh bullet in my chest. My body— ruptured.

我昨天梦见天空 ，妈。雨水酥软 我的舌头。云像窗帘一样， 随风 而行。妈，我从地窖看不到天 空。只有血从我过去的 囚犯，像呼吸 一样雕刻在墙里。这个房间里有太多的负空间 ，妈。只剩下离去的记忆。记得吗：萤火虫以你的絲裙子为食。国旗拆散 成 枪伤的尸体，想幸运一样的红。 妈，我好几天都没吃饭 了。这些夜晚，我双手收 灰，汲取我们人民的汗水。我把它塞进我的肚 子里，像欲望一样。缺席无法容纳 任何事物。 昨晚，他们问我最 后一顿饭想吃什么。我求了莲花树的花瓣和 茉莉花茶。他们笑。 告诉我我自能吃死苍蝇和瘀伤。妈，你还记得池塘里的 风信子

吗？他們活了

四天，然后消失 在水的深渊中。你 哭了。我想像它们会重新出现在 你脸上的阴影中。你看起来 还一样吗，妈？你睡了吗 ，妈？这些天来，我唯一记得的就 是毛泽东的脸—他留着 50 多岁的发型，陶醉于时光。 妈。 妈，听我 说话。一周前，我穿着裤子和白色 T 恤，中午去上 班时亲吻我的 女儿。一只手拿着公文包，另一只手拿着一袋外 卖。妈，我看到了尸体散落 在地上，就像麻雀的羽毛。准备收 获夏季后代的坦克场。妈，我一定是 傻了。我站在人行横道 的十字路口，像一具石

尸一样挡住了第一辆坦克。妈，我爬上 坦克，像棺材一样打开 炮塔。里面：一个男孩，大约十四岁。 一个男孩，背负着这个国 及其所有的罪恶。 一 個男孩。

所以我对他大喊大叫，叫他带走我，我 的身体，我的生命。 求你了，妈。不要来找我。别让他们杀 那个男孩，我的 女儿，那些 风信子。让他们杀我。 让我化为水汽，化为淤泥，化为 埋藏的记忆。 今 晚，妈，在我胸部中：一顆新鮮的子彈。

我的身体— 破裂。

This piece has been previously published by Frontier Poetry.

Absinthe And Pipedreams

Josephine Tu ’25

Would it be fair that to exist is to extend one’s arms in a swirling fog tinged green with absinthe cloudy and volatile? to claw at air pulling out mist by the fistful with nothing to hold onto but the merely vaporized cascading hail crystal orbs of frozen rain cut fresh wounds of blood and of pain— punctured through sheer tissue to my heart. to suggest to reach out towards that intoxicating glow of pipedreams?