by Sarah Yi-Mei Tsiang
I saw my father yesterday,
sitting on the wall of his mausoleum.
He held my hand and told me he forgave me
and I asked, for what?
He smelled of apples, an autumn of leaves
for skin. I remember you like this, I said,
a harvest — an orchard of a man.
He opened his shirt, plucked a plum
from his lungs and held it out to me.
Everything, he said, is a way of remembering.
Previously published in Arc Poetry Magazine (2012), Best Canadian Poetry 2013, Best of the Best Canadian Poetry, and Sweet Delivery (Oolichan Books, 2011).
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Sarah Yi-Mei Tsiang is the author of 10 books, including picture books, poetry, and fiction. Her award-winning work has been internationally sold and translated. She is currently an adjunct professor of Creative Writing at the University of British Columbia.