Anjun Jia
You play with your handwriting

You play with your handwriting, the way your Gs and Qs curl,
like swirled butter shortbread cookies
you see the time of year our TVs put on Christmas commercials. Or
like steam, skimming the tops of what they call
“flower roll buns”?
(hua juan. the kind
with scallions, into
their spirals spun)
you see the time of week we shop for groceries.

You and your lucky eosin Red dots
your practical Prussian blue Checkmarks
your whimsical crystal violet Dashes
wrap line after line of torn out notepad paper
in free flowing gel ink you buy refills for at Muji -

and your question marks collide
into your exclamation points; crying
dissenting opinionated conflict,
as your calligraphic-turned-curt
brush-turned-pen strokes debate
like directors over the emphasis in your sentences.
intermittent punctuation
breathing between each set of your etching,
in motion
as colourfully circular
as a lazy susan spinning with dim sum over white tablecloth.

You figure-eight your Ss, like a Canadian ice dancer,
near the end of her career, and by that I mean with years
of experience
under her belt,
around her vertical infinity,
over-the-top gesturing
growing weary,

but of course she has an exit plan, a way out, to – with the minimal grace required –
make one final loop, leave the letter
form the next idea.

You send letters, monthly, and text messages, daily. I wonder,
When
will smudges on the page – or gaps between SMS bubbles
where you had to stop and catch your breath,
grow big enough for us to see each other again,
once and for all the rest of time?

Little noncommittal mittened Ts join hands by their serifs –
like cumin lamb slabs parallel,
holding out for a skewer, to
in one fell swoop
fix them in place.
Are you afraid of heights?
Sturdy Mahjong tiles shuffle, the noise
drowns out rows of dominoes falling;
it’ll take more than one strike
to cross out our lineage.

When you put your pen to page you remind me, in all my speech patterns and posturing,
that words in and of their own are
Not for putting away on the cabinet and forgetting,
Not for strict demarcation between countries
But recorded symbols for stowing away memories,
But our containers for worlds, switching languages
like we swap out tupperware for dinner plans.
You create and conversate with what surrounds you,
and were never one to jot down a recipe.
It’s the same city, but you
are more than twice the people person, as am I
for different reasons, I love us all regardless
and I
just don't want
medical school
to do to your handwriting, what
melting pots,
built for holding chicken noodle soup,
did to the century egg congee
that came here, to be