Cat S. Chen
The West Mall
An apartment on the third floor, overlooking the highway:
D.N.
Two children standing among crisscrossing blades of dried grass,
two dots of color against the pale sky, buildings, pavement,
listening to the growl of the hurtling cars in our backyard.
And I look at you, with tales of home and pet lions on your lips,
until you run toward the chain fence, a dare in your eyes—
seeing a ladder where they meant a wall—
and you climb. The fury of the highway turns into a cheer.
This is a false memory, but it was the strongest one in my mind when I learned that
you died.
K.S.
Now a real memory wedging ourselves behind the couch
in the early morning, on a sleepover my parents didn’t understand.
I don’t like it but you convince me that this is what Canadians do,
when we see a red light in the building across the highway,
we assume aliens, keep vigil until daybreak. I feel it—
certain that four eyes are enough for truth and also that some
parts of the world are forever behind a barrier of hurtling cars
out of reach.
A.Z.
An adult memory from two towns over I superimpose here
of an ashtray, black with golden flowers,
a souvenir I gave you years after I left, and immediately you go
to the balcony with a cigarette, cover the flowers with ash. I join
and watch the highway, cover my ears
like children who race the hurtling cars until we win, all
the smoke behind us.
D.N.
Two children standing among crisscrossing blades of dried grass,
two dots of color against the pale sky, buildings, pavement,
listening to the growl of the hurtling cars in our backyard.
And I look at you, with tales of home and pet lions on your lips,
until you run toward the chain fence, a dare in your eyes—
seeing a ladder where they meant a wall—
and you climb. The fury of the highway turns into a cheer.
This is a false memory, but it was the strongest one in my mind when I learned that
you died.
K.S.
Now a real memory wedging ourselves behind the couch
in the early morning, on a sleepover my parents didn’t understand.
I don’t like it but you convince me that this is what Canadians do,
when we see a red light in the building across the highway,
we assume aliens, keep vigil until daybreak. I feel it—
certain that four eyes are enough for truth and also that some
parts of the world are forever behind a barrier of hurtling cars
out of reach.
A.Z.
An adult memory from two towns over I superimpose here
of an ashtray, black with golden flowers,
a souvenir I gave you years after I left, and immediately you go
to the balcony with a cigarette, cover the flowers with ash. I join
and watch the highway, cover my ears
like children who race the hurtling cars until we win, all
the smoke behind us.
Biography
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Cat S. Chen (she/her) is an immigrant and non-profit immigration attorney. Her poems have appeared/are forthcoming in the Schuylkill Valley Journal, Eye to the Telescope, and Samjoko Magazine. She frequently puts into the world thoughts on immigrants’ rights and community lawyering and not so frequently puts into the world art.
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