BÁT QUÁI (BAGUA MIRROR)

POEM

BY JOHN NGUYEN

To my many siblings, the alive and lingering.

He cooks sticky rice cakes, brings orchids

and forsythias in from the car, hangs that

octagonal golden charm on the front door

to ward off evil spirits—all in preparation

for the Lunar New Year. The house is clean,

though only in the living room. That’s okay,

guests won’t enter the others. While his baby

wails and he lulls her with shhh, the TV plays

in a tongue he has yet to tame: A 55-year-old

woman was punched to the ground in Chinatown.

A poppy bloomed on her nose—another bullet

point on a list longer than all rivers of a motherland.

It’s supposed to protect us, he tells his kids, who stare

at the just-hung, teal-eyed talisman. Then fireworks fly. Bang.

John Nguyen is a sophomore in Davenport College.