I burn my calf dismounting the motorcycle and it felt like
by Jessica Le
The hottest thing: motorcycle engine where my Daddy
cooked his own flank, getting off the bike,
rushing into the restaurant. In his own hunger
brine of sweat, the smell had his mouth watering. Inside,
my uncle, still alive, fanning himself waiting for the vegetables
to come on, his white undershirt hiked up, stretch of
belly shiny with sweat, the TV static and smoke its own sweet.
Tell me, is it possible to forget a brother?
Maybe. But my Daddy could never forget his crying in 67’
when the spoon hit the bottom of the pot, empty.
Like my own brother’s apartment when I pushed open the door,
with a bit of force because the wood was crappy,
and he was showering, so it was me, the takeout
cooling on the table, and the dance music soaking the room.
A drum beat of, this city is good. This country is everything.
I used to cry hard every time I left him. Now we
eat fried chicken and discuss our seasonal allergies.
Now I, too, have left our parents somewhere cold,
their heads turned back towards a rainy window.
What else can we do except remember the half-truths?
When Uncle jawed off in class that he'd drink
from the inkwell for a few bucks, they said, yeah, punk,
drink it then, and bang, his eyebrows shot up, post-mouthful.
Drink it, man, they all shouted, but he chickened out, ruining
his neatly printed practice papers: How do you do? and,
Where are you? and, What is your favourite place to visit?
Questions to get us out of here. Uncle grinning
a greasy black boat. Forgot about him until years later
Daddy saw him by accident in a subway station, the place where
he'd stand before the murky warm stairs and see a fluorescent
light for the first time. Passing his hand over that brightness,
which burned his hand black, which frightened it into a bird,
which disappeared his fingers. This city is good. Remember that.
Letting the subway sail by, beating the broadcast's damp drum,
crumpled and wet so that all questions come out like an answer:
How do you do. and, Where are you. and, How do I get there.
Jessica Le is the author of the chapbook The Nearest Sweetest Thing (Anstruther Press, 2021). Her work has been published in Watch Your Head (Coach House Books, 2020), The Rumpus, Salt Hill Journal, PRISM International, and elsewhere. She lives in Toronto. @lejiexi on Twitter.