shelled peanuts in my mothers hometown
Toronto, Canada
2025, Senior, Poetry & Spoken Word
Hunan flows in rivers of unspoken language; rivers: 湘, 资,
沅, 澧¹ emerge in currents that collapse into a flood basin.
I emerge at the intersection of your lungs, where your
sleeping aquifers meet the tumbling sea
and tough bamboo roots erupt your thick, wet skin,
porous to hungry caterpillars and oxidized tears,
to the buries of a dead poet’s dream, unkempt yet
carried by songbirds in the forest’s clearing.
I lie at the intersection of your heart, where my
rhizomatous roots slither in the soil of my ancestors
where you birthed the world from your breathing womb
and laid leaves to cover your bleeding wounds.
Pour remedy into china pots of 安化² tea; 安: peace, pieced
in recipes of grandmother & grandmothers cutting
pears, left untouched, that lay begging in silent apologies
to worn daughters & daughters who dreamed to
climb beyond the healing of the mountains of Hunan,
to betray the warm wet hugs of your river valleys.
I stand at the intersection of your hands, where 妈³
used to sit: on a plastic red stool, hunched over heaps
of unshelled peanuts awaiting to be plucked by two
thumbs—pushing the cavity in the centre—crack—
Heaps of shelled peanuts await delivery to Saturday’s
market, save the handful in my pocket awaiting my devouring.
I flower at the intersection of your palm, where these
roasted peanuts grind into a thickened paste
& grandmother’s remedies grow wanderlust in your garden
& mother’s dreams echo beyond the low dangling moon
& my sweat sweet lips caress your porous skin
& your soil feeds mine.
Translations:
¹湘, 资, 沅, 澧 (xiāng, zī, yuán, lǐ): the four largest rivers flowing through the Hunan province
²安化 (ān huà): a popular tea leaf farmed in Hunan, believed to bring healing and peace
³妈 (mā): mom
Reflection
Reflection
This poem is an exploration of the richness of my mother’s hometown, Hunan. She grew up in a poor, farming village, where most families raised livestock and grew crops. During my visits, I would often find my grandfather harvesting peanuts, and a group of women on the roadside shelling them. The work was mundane and oftentimes gruesome under the sweltering heat, yet their connection to the life they had grown, based in gratitude, was never lost upon me. Nature is a place of healing and growth: my mother’s freshly stewed anhua tea was her token of care; the Xiang river was her village’s life source, my grandmother knew by heart the various mountain plants that remedied fevers or injuries—to her, healing was a gift from the mountains of Hunan. Today, I carry with me the knowing that I was born from this land and put in every effort to celebrate the small joys and nuances of nature. Although I have only been back a few times, every breath of Hunan’s hot, heavy air makes me feel alive.