Sophia Liu

Poem in Which There are More Words for Love Because  

you are tired of                                             hinder in Chinese articulating as 
ài        You are sick of                                   the sound of your mother’s  
love as an onomatopoeia                          crashing onto the couch after work 
Her in the supermarket—                         āi, bring me hot water
when you drop the plastic bag with the sound of her
the white radish        You—                        gulping it down 
the latchkey kid knowing                          love only as your father’s fury &
reminding yourself that                             loving is in fact a hindrance 

Crossing the street—                                  āi, wait for me & 
your ankles brake                                        She places your fingers laced through hers 
You wonder that if like love,                     a brittle language blisters when
her voice is too mellow                              A female spider’s web disintegrates, unable
to stress the first letter,                             so you distance yourself from 
fearing duality,                                            the love that licked you clean 
secretly                                                     of the world’s roaring 

Some nights, you                                engrave
love into a copper plate,                           festooned 
along your bed frame,                               echo 
a decalcomania                                           to distribute                 
as a Dürer woodcut        You—                imagine a printing press running &
running,                                                   enough love for all to be 
thinking of ài as                                           the white radish,
excuses                                                          floating in your mother’s soup