Ellen Zhang

in some languages

there is no capitalization
because every word is something in of itself
with a weight carrying it forward, buoying
onto the shore, knowing that it will find land somehow, someway. in mandarin, the lulling voice of
my mother cradled my dreams
of pomegranate houses, moonshined
snow. only later would I know that the period
is hollow instead of filled in, small o of surprise readying itself to go forwards, not seeking
to be filled in, empty with promises and prayers for choosing. in this language, mine,
there is only gender when written on the page there is no existence of pronouns upon intonation
instead, the he and she and they are malleable
so easy these vocations bend around uvula,
hiding the unseen between the crevices of tongue so that i do not have to explain or invite questions
when i bring home a boy who feels comfortable in his skin for the first time in a long time
there is the hardening of culture, impossible
to shake off expectations that sink into sinew, scraping along bone perhaps even settling
into our marrow, but these are just reminders
that our language is flexible, always making room for things that we ourselves do not understand
so when your face lies upon the space between my breasts and clavicle leaving soft imprints
of afternoon shadows, i am knowing and filled
in that knowing that this life makes room
for the things that matter even if these
are the things we do not understand.

Ellen Zhang is a student at Harvard Medical School who has studied under Pulitzer Prize winner Jorie Graham, poet Rosebud Ben-Oni, and poet Josh Bell. She has been recognized by the 2022 DeBakey Poetry Prize, 2022 Dibase Poetry Contest, and as a 2019 National Student Poet Semifinalist. Her works appear or are forthcoming in Chestnut Review, Southward Literary Journal, Hekton International, and elsewhere.