The Bluestocking 2023-24

Domi Cao Grade 12 picasso’s “the soup,” reinterpreted

standing in the hallway now / my dream daughter / with you my skin is sown on right / my neck bent low now / lower than my body can rationalize / hunger hurts / hungry ghosts die / and are reborn / into this human realm / a cyclical desperation / my hands in your oil soaked hair now / hot soup dribbling down my chin / like dirty teardrops falling to the ground / it is not enough / it is more than enough / maybe we are hungry ghosts / maybe we are dogs. — when the Columbia admissions officer asked me about my mother i told her Jun is bound to me by the thick winds of Zhejiang ( 浙江省 ). she is kind of a recluse. she has gentle black hair brutally slashed by many streaks of gray. she, like me, liked to wear a thin layer of red lipstick. rum raisin red. she smelled of dumplings all the time. her frail torso roams around the house, imbuing every dusty, lonely corner with the sturdy scent of China. she watches very closely at what i do. my diligent guardian. Jun often tells me after i move to new york she will return to China and retire.

“but you’re not even working.” “yes, i am, ungrateful child. i work every day to take care of you.”

to my admissions officer, i also talked about how hard i thundered in Jun’s womb. how i clamoured in the fragility of her body until she hollered a thunderbolt of her own. with my tiny feet and tenacious limbs i kicked a fissure inside her hefty porcelain urn. when she gave birth to me, my face was as red as steak done medium rare. i smothered in her red string. the beautiful gore of her ancestry. the red hue of the matriarchal

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