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    The Family China
    The Family China
    The Family China
    Ebook75 pages26 minutes

    The Family China

    By Ann Shin

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    About this ebook

    In The Family China, her second book of poems, Ann Shin examines the decentering experiences of migration, loss and death, and the impulse to build anew. In five suites threaded through with footnote-like fragments that haunt and ambush the text like memories, the book accrues associations, building and transforming images from poem to poem, creating a layered and cohesive collection that asks daring questions about how we define ourselves. These poems grapple rawly and musically with the profound messiness of human relations; their candour consoles and instructs. The quandaries in The Family China are deeply recognizable. Strung up between fragility and resilience, between naïve hope and domestic disillusionment, between an untenable nostalgia for the pastoral and a deep unease with the global, the voice of these poems is nevertheless determined to find some scrap of a song we can sing in common.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBrick Books
    Release dateMar 18, 2015
    ISBN9781926829807
    The Family China
    Author

    Ann Shin

    Ann Shin is a filmmaker and award-winning writer. Her documentary My Enemy, My Brother was shortlisted for a 2016 Academy Award and nominated for an Emmy. Her documentary, The Defector: Escape from North Korea won 7 awards including Best Documentary and Best Documentary Director at the 2014 Canadian Screen Academy Awards, a SXSW Interactive Award, and a Canadian Digi Award. She has directed programs for CBC, Discovery Channel, HGTV, History Channel, W Network, PBS, and Fine Living Network.

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      Book preview

      The Family China - Ann Shin

      NOTE

      FORGOTTEN FIELDS

      Pressing sponges to the wall as water dripped from elbows,

      they gift-wrapped the insides of a farmhouse gone to bush.

      We weren’t allowed in ’til moving day, then

      we ran through the rooms like it was Christmas.

      A plastic-wrapped window bed, a warm spot by the wood stove.

      We claimed corners of the house with our dolls, our bodies

      knitting in with this place that so wanted kids.

      Trees sprouted apples, cherries dropped from heavy boughs.

      The farmhouse mellowed, ripened, held secrets so long

      infinity bloomed as wind lifted the curtains,

      leaves dusted shadows across his face

      as fleeting as day, inchoate like the night.

      My brother fell asleep with his heel banging the wall.

      Now wallpaper peels like petals drying on the stem.

      You can fit half a kid between the dark walls,

      the other half floats somewhere over the fields

      where dew dots long grass stalks and cows rub against

      gate posts. Clean nicks. Chapped lips. Wet hair.

      Fingers flutter over the barbed-wire fence

      where he fell. Black stitches on cold, white skin.

      Through the still water of a round glass vase

      the yard primps perennials in pink and yellow –

      refulgent, they live again, as they do each spring.

      A cow lumbers past, rubs the fence post again.

      A moth dusts my fingers and is gone. The earth’s mantle

      folds, forming a skin over my brother’s body

      and I am wedged between wooden slats, not breathing.

      My mother washed the walls of that house

      with the assurance of those who see order in chaos,

      doors flung wide to butterflies trussing their beds outside

      among weeds, tumbled hay bales, twisted apple trees.

      I never caught a butterfly all the summers we lived there

      never tried enough, afraid of crushed wings releasing

      orange-yellow dust into the night breeze.

      My mother’s breath at my ear freed me into sleep

      while luscious fields edging up to my window

      swished their long grasses onto my carpet.

      Slipping headlong I slept like a riverbank,

      waves lapping against my velvet clay chest.

      Few words were spoken, even fewer remembered

      for I’m still half submerged.

      The practiced hand of progress

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