P R O D I G Y
PRODIGY
I grew up. At Chung
Hyejin’s violin studio, a
buried low-rise Wan Chai
tower, I brought my teacher a paper
doily the day I was to leave Hong Kong for fifteen years I have
played the instrument painstakingly, I wrote my
Korean name, haphazardly, I scribbled my
English name, and in tiny letters
my Chinese name.
My violin all packed up for the international flight I knew I was meant
to worship VIOLIN
pluck the sacrificial string
canoodle to concertos
end agnosticism in chords
& make SOUND that
pleases the world!
Even stored away temporarily I
hoped toit would drip grotesquely off the Tsing Ma bridge
into a metal-wooden slurry
no hirsute American
would tear out a song