A History of Sounds and Stories
Location
She speaks in tones of survival-
when my ancestors first were mistaken for railroad ties,
chink
goes the sound of hammer striking metal we were
no more than the industrial glue holding the Wild West together
they don’t teach you about the Yellow American Cowboy in school
chink
goes the sound of slamming doors and hooded eyes
She was the one who whispered lullabies
from the Yang Zhe river through the flat open plains she
blew breath into worker’s tired limbs in the guise of their Lao Lao’s voice
chink
is the sound of explosives not tested for safety before use
bodies expendable
look out
you will be blown back by our beauty
covered in the rags of your society
we thrive
She liked to dance along the yellow tape of Stonewall-
hissed fag through the sound of the beer tap sputtering as we
took back what was ours- a right
to our own skin to our own blood staying inside that skin and just when she
appeared something made the fists stop pounding just
for a moment
and the wind to stop shaking through the East Village at night
fag is the sound of a simmering disquiet
the echo of a gun in the distance
the names mean nothing to you
but I hear my own blood sizzle
fag is the sound of my body becoming effigy so we will leave more than
dust and dying embers
She didn’t bestow me with words until the first time I cracked open a history book
in 7th grade and went to the index to find my community and saw it was blank
it was at that moment she snaked her fingers through mine, closed the textbook and
said
write
write a history of sounds and stories
write so your daughter can look up her name in the constellations
and find more than
charcoal and rusted railroad ties.