central business district
the silk market is a game of chess and
ambition, a power ploy: all sharp tongues
and hands on hips. calculators speak
for the foreigners here but those of us
whose eyes have run obsidian since birth
know that to punch numbers and box for
a bargain is to lose. in these vendor stalls,
serenity is a strategy and nonchalance is
the mark of a winner. look the snake in the
eye, and pay double after the bite.
underground
there is triple, quadruple irony in the
posters underground. rusty tiles crumble
with age as aspect ratios demand attention
to the emerald opulence of beijing. cigarettes,
half-smoked, sigh from a nearby corner.
still, we giggle shoulder-to-shoulder as
we venture through a mundane morning.
to the gray cement of the country, our
young eyes add value beyond comparison
great wall
rain wears at the monument’s rambling
steps and eccentric asymmetry. history is
told in color, yet centuries of the great wall
have only lived in gray stone. still, plastic
tourists crowd its peaks like triumphant
crayons. we huddle in threes under black
umbrellas to evade the uneven storm. i
shudder to imagine what wes anderson
would think.
forbidden city
deciphering the stylistic wooden strokes
on these crumbling monuments does
not come easy. english may flow like a
river of words but chinese will always
shudder irregularly in dirty droplets as
it rambles down these red shingles. my
dark dress suddenly becomes fitting; i
am not meant to wear royal gold in this
hallowed city.
Maggie Sun currently lives in Southern California. She loves listening to history podcasts, and her phone case collection is inspired by the likes of Audrey Hepburn and Do Ho Suh.