Haibun for Learning 中文 on Duolingo
My mother tells me that when she loses her memory, she will stop speaking English. She asks how I will be able to speak to her then, and I respond, you won’t lose your memory. This is not an answer. It is its own kind of loss. My grandmother has lost her hearing, and also her hearing aids. She yells into the phone when she calls. She calls my mother because she does not have my phone number. Because there is not much she can say to me. Hello. Are you well. Have you eaten sweet noodles today.
I am trying my best and every morning at ten I receive an alert that my best is not fast enough. By then, the coffee has gone cold, I have completed my morning exercises, and still I do not speak a language I have a name in.
Owl flight is silent;
the feathers break turbulence
into quietude.
Self-Portrait Alone in the Kitchen
My body seems to grow in unwelcome places.
I wait for the kettle to boil.
I sit on a stool, hunched over, curled
like I am rotting. I train myself to shrink.
I train myself to starve. I grow soft
instead of smaller. A body
with a mind of its own. I drink tea
so I can taste something. A trick.
A drop of honey on the tongue
gilds my insides. The kettle whistles high
and angry. I wish for the water to melt me.
Maybe then I’ll glisten. The folds in my belly
rivers of gold instead. Reflecting.
My mother once showed me 饿:
the character for hunger. A self
being eaten. When my stomach growls,
I imagine it is eating itself, it is eating me,
it will make me thin like my mother.