Sacredby Yume Chung MartinesIn the ashen stalls across from the bombed orphanage, we are able to buy dim sum for the native orchid children. In the copper rays we walk, our bean curd in damp paper, the sunshine gutters trailing streets of hostess houses. The sea spring has melted demons from the mountain gates, village town, and the Spirits walk in our hair. We leave our steamed meat, dumplings for their ancestors, germinating pollinators for the Mother of earthly ghosts. © 2005 by Yume Chung Martines. All rights reserved. |