for Qu Yuan (340 BC – 278 BC), a Chinese poet and politician in the State of Chu during the Warring States era.

I.

300 BC: he wades into a river

like a crane, deep enough

for waves to press a noose

of water against his throat. Folds

of current cup his ears, muffling

the static of his lungs, shriveling

under the weight of what once gave

breath. Before his silk sleeves bloom

like ink through the water, he watches

the scales of fish surface

like stars through the muck – doors

to a heaven refusing to open. He drowns

not from silence, but from the clarity

of his language: his poems, the trail he left

of smashed porcelain in the court’s

mouth. His king shook his head. His city

burned into the sky like fireworks. Grief, when

held underwater, barely makes a sound.

II.

Each year, we remember the 31st day

of spring for the sticky rice clutching

the baked yolk or red bean

or pig stomach, wrapped tight

in bamboo the texture

of my father’s hands, still chapped

from miles of fishing line. We feed

offerings like this to the river, so the stars

never hunger for him again. Children

fold his suffocation into schoolbook fables –

poets, too. Neighbors slurp

his memories like soup, salt hiding

the taste of mourning. But he would

rather argue about his bones, whether

they are river quartz or centuries

old shark teeth, than live. After all,

grief smudges horror into theatre:

the stars of heaven, cut from the sky

of yellow construction paper

fresh for the production.