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Updated: Dec 31, 2020

Art by Tina Lin, staff artist

Making zongzi is a simple art.

No more than sticky rice

steeped in soy sauce, bloated

with pork fats and onion.

Embellished with leaves of the

lucky bamboo. He says it

keeps the body holy and pure.

Constricted, can’t unfurl.

In our language, 自己isn’t hard

to write or to pronounce.

You were wrapping zongzi when

Father read you a legend

about a girl and the moon. Fate

can't help but long for the

ink-stained wings of breathless

storms, the spiraling jade

of thunderbolts. You dream of

salvation, not of salt.

Years race past. In this millennium,

you are no longer the hare,

but the tortoise. Happiness comes

fast as ballot boxes and

shrapnel shards. Listen: the universe

favors entropy--that is to

say, freedom. These are the offices

and shopping malls and

sunset-rimmed cityscapes. This is

the beginning.

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