Dad Recites the Full Moon

Dad Recites the Full Moon

Isabella Hsu

My father, near the end of life
and tired from his work, leans back.
The polished wood shines out, and he,
resting his forearms on the table,
sits in a spotlight made for one.
His lips begin to move, his eyes
are closed with pleasure as he summons
a spell he learned once as a boy.
He speaks the ancient incantation
and words uncoil like smoke in rings
from that deep place of memory.
The transforming is complete—
our present now becomes his past:
The table is a schoolroom desk;
the hands upon them are a boy’s.
They tap the rhythm of the old words,
full moon rising in his mind:

Chuáng qián míngyuè guāng
Yí shì dìshang shuāng
Jǔtóu wàng míngyuè
Dītóu sī gùxiāng

Before my bed, I see moonlight--
It could be frost upon the ground.
I lift my head and see the moon,
I hang my head and think of home.

---

Isabella Hsu
Poet & Editor

Isabella is a writer & assistant executive editor of Dappled Things.

Photography by Luke Stackpoole