Ashland
Poetry by Haolun Xu
i.
Stately plump a man steps back against the rest of the frame. Gingerly. This is where the fear progresses. Here. At home, before descending, tracing inward steps against the sliver shadows. With the ventricle staircase made clear, the four-chamber wood keeping count of each motion taken. This is forward. This is accounted for, you can turn back at anytime. Each step hurts. Even your organs don’t want to come with you. When you move, you terrify yourself with the rest of the house, covered in darkness, we watch as you go along your way.
ii.
This is Ashland. This is Poor Land.
Trounced, perfected, we wish for nothing,
We hope to be something wasted, as we grow.
This is softness, mercy gifted, Plenty hurting, this we know-
When we weep we whisper gently and hope this is sand, waiting always-
Can you keep me? Will you try,
Because who will hurt me? maim me? Keep me tender and dry.
Because these are long years, here in Ashland,
They did promise me cover, as I go.
But who will save me, the heart restless,
Each time tireless as we grow-
Where will I take my forty lashes, who will strike me down.
Who will protect me from the ashes, protect me from the ground.
This is lightning one voice says
but another strikes me down.
This is Ashland. The poor seldom do
We speak upon the shadows,
When the sun rises, the morning laughs
And we crawl across the dew.
I don’t wish anyone upon me. I don’t think this is fair.
Off in the distance, three fawn drinks, the water dripping on their sternum bowed.
They laugh at me, troubling near. Wish forgotten, rested, blessed.
iii.
People die from disease.
In time, when they pass, you stop mourning each one,
you simply prepare for the next event.
This is for bad luck, and a love everlasting.
Somewhere else, a trumpet is sounded.
People will get angry, but this is just a drill.
Stately plump a man steps back against the rest of the frame. Gingerly. This is where the fear progresses. Here. At home, before descending, tracing inward steps against the sliver shadows. With the ventricle staircase made clear, the four-chamber wood keeping count of each motion taken. This is forward. This is accounted for, you can turn back at anytime. Each step hurts. Even your organs don’t want to come with you. When you move, you terrify yourself with the rest of the house, covered in darkness, we watch as you go along your way.
ii.
This is Ashland. This is Poor Land.
Trounced, perfected, we wish for nothing,
We hope to be something wasted, as we grow.
This is softness, mercy gifted, Plenty hurting, this we know-
When we weep we whisper gently and hope this is sand, waiting always-
Can you keep me? Will you try,
Because who will hurt me? maim me? Keep me tender and dry.
Because these are long years, here in Ashland,
They did promise me cover, as I go.
But who will save me, the heart restless,
Each time tireless as we grow-
Where will I take my forty lashes, who will strike me down.
Who will protect me from the ashes, protect me from the ground.
This is lightning one voice says
but another strikes me down.
This is Ashland. The poor seldom do
We speak upon the shadows,
When the sun rises, the morning laughs
And we crawl across the dew.
I don’t wish anyone upon me. I don’t think this is fair.
Off in the distance, three fawn drinks, the water dripping on their sternum bowed.
They laugh at me, troubling near. Wish forgotten, rested, blessed.
iii.
People die from disease.
In time, when they pass, you stop mourning each one,
you simply prepare for the next event.
This is for bad luck, and a love everlasting.
Somewhere else, a trumpet is sounded.
People will get angry, but this is just a drill.
About the writer
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Haolun Xu is 24 years old and was born in Nanning, China. He immigrated to the United States in 1999. He was raised in central New Jersey and is currently studying Political Science and English at Rutgers University. Transitioning from a background in journalism and activism, he spends his time between writing poetry and the local seashore." Xu has been published in Quail Bell Review, Rock & Sling, Garfield Lake Review, and more. His recent chapbook, “Five Memories Of A Beijing Winter,” has been nominated for the Versal Amsterdam Prize.
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