car camping, in the fourth month of protests
by Jody Chan
beyond our tent, the ferries roll through
all times of day, disruptive
as tankers or ferries or thoughts about our forecasted
children, the changing heat, all the harms
we’ve inflicted for which someone else will carry
the shame. endangered, an otter glides by.
we misnamed this land when we arrived, and so on.
in Hong Kong, a child too young to count
asks when will we stop marching?
30 miles of people link hands across the harbour.
I am only ever a screen’s distance away.
an island, blue in its solitude. a spill
no body could contain
not even the ocean I keep forgetting
is an ocean, sheened pink beneath the tired
light. the sun a bleeding egg, cracked
open like a protester’s head.
in Hong Kong, the police shoot at youth
like police everywhere.
when my eyes grow loud with stars I listen.
to the crook of your elbow. your warm jokes
nestled to my neck, the tide’s sentence.
hope is a meadow ringed by trees.
in Hong Kong, a generation sleeps three to a hundred square feet
while you and I play at owning.
this whole stolen shore.
there is no innocence anywhere.
one atom at a time I admit this is all I want
to do, to lie here without responsibility.
I am not someone others should depend on.
here I am, at rest.
here I am, a passenger to my own
expectations. my favourite future is the one where I die
of old age, my hand releasing yours under the sheets
all times of day, disruptive
as tankers or ferries or thoughts about our forecasted
children, the changing heat, all the harms
we’ve inflicted for which someone else will carry
the shame. endangered, an otter glides by.
we misnamed this land when we arrived, and so on.
in Hong Kong, a child too young to count
asks when will we stop marching?
30 miles of people link hands across the harbour.
I am only ever a screen’s distance away.
an island, blue in its solitude. a spill
no body could contain
not even the ocean I keep forgetting
is an ocean, sheened pink beneath the tired
light. the sun a bleeding egg, cracked
open like a protester’s head.
in Hong Kong, the police shoot at youth
like police everywhere.
when my eyes grow loud with stars I listen.
to the crook of your elbow. your warm jokes
nestled to my neck, the tide’s sentence.
hope is a meadow ringed by trees.
in Hong Kong, a generation sleeps three to a hundred square feet
while you and I play at owning.
this whole stolen shore.
there is no innocence anywhere.
one atom at a time I admit this is all I want
to do, to lie here without responsibility.
I am not someone others should depend on.
here I am, at rest.
here I am, a passenger to my own
expectations. my favourite future is the one where I die
of old age, my hand releasing yours under the sheets
Jody Chan is a writer and organizer based in Toronto. They are the poetry editor for Hematopoeisis and the author of haunt (Damaged Goods Press, 2018) and sick, winner of the 2018 St. Lawrence Book Award. Their work has been nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, and published in Third Coast, BOAAT, Yes Poetry, Nat. Brut, The Shade Journal, and elsewhere. They have received fellowships from VONA and Tin House. They can be found online at https://www.jodychan.com/ and offline in bookstores or dog parks.