Fortune
Every year on the cusp of old and new,
grandmother kneels in front of the fireplace
with her Tung Shu and bookmarks,
tosses five quarters onto brick.
She watches the order
in which they fall, scratches my name
with her brittle fingernail into the book's margin
when she has matched
their sequence to a fortune.
This year was a good year, next will be better,
she always tells me after studying the characters.
The warrior who has won the battle
stands at a crossroad,
and his horse is hungry.
The carp tries to leap
the high wall, its scales
a blistering glare. The fisherman
catches the prize pelican
with an oyster in its long beak.
The kirin, half tiger, half dragon,
enters the forbidden city.
Year after year, she wants my fortunes
to drag me toward the coming year, but
how can I be as certain as grandmother
that my life is good? The warrior has won a battle,
but does he complete his journey
if he has no horse, no food? Is the carp's leap
transcendent or defiant? Which am I—
fisherman, oyster, or pelican?
And the kirin, the long-awaited prince—
to what political state is he born, and
what does it mean to be a prince and a woman?