Design by Amber Weng
PROLOGUE
a nature-loving polytheist
by Ruby Zi Shuen Seet
ACT I: Do you garden?
my Grandmother’s fingers are blessed by Persephone.
with a touch, she is a world-class surgeon,
my Mother’s plants: another living patient.
where she walks, flowers and smiles blossom,
cactuses and backs erect,
and the earth is greener.
my Mother’s fingers are not blessed by Persephone.
her plants often take unfortunate trips to the morgue,
after the rare failure of my Grandmother’s resuscitations.
where she walks: flowers bloom—
temporarily—
sometimes.
when they do, it is cause for celebration.
my Mother’s fingers are blessed by Hephaestus.
her soul, a hearth of never-ending flames:
the everyday tinkering of motherhood,
an armoury of tasks, chores—invisible labour.
how do you endlessly sharpen a sword without growing weary?
or love the craft enough that you persist in tinkering away?
I am a dictionary wordless in the face of her craftsmanship—
forged and crystallised in an hourglass of sacrifice:
a debater with no argument,
a speaker with no sound,
a poet with no poem.
no essay or tapestry with enough length or depth
to describe the blood and tears of a mother’s love.
the word “sweat” insufficient of
a gratitude that beckons, infinitely.
Persephone does not yet touch my fingers,
but my fingers are interlaced with Athena’s,
to write poetry and stories,
to flip the pages of books I read and journals I write,
I do not garden like the women in my life.
I do not find peace in it as they do.
maybe I am too young.
ACT II: Do you know how privileged you are?
my Grandmother’s fingers are a holy relic,
her hands clasped by both Hephaestus and Hera.
she is an Asian tiger grandma,
who breathes fire in the face of challenge
and love in the face of children.
who nurtured three babies through the Asian recession
by forging love in the shape of noodles,
and warmth in the flavour of soup.
she is my Mother’s mentor:
the one who taught her how to forge,
and, hence, the one who taught me.
maybe my fingers are interlaced with Persephone’s:
flowery language, planted within my stanzas,
metaphors for love, life, death and memory,
roots reaching deep beneath the surface
to touch something under the earth’s soil.
the core of one’s metallic heart.
if my Grandmother’s fingers are a relic,
they are a powerful one.
there is nothing her hands cannot learn:
she can cook,
sew,
craft,
crochet,
and garden—
at frightening speeds.
she picks skills up quickly.
I do not.
my hands are slow.
(she has tried teaching me, to no avail)
I am quicker with my mind.
however, I cannot compare
the speed of my mind to my Grandmother’s:
I, with three languages on my tongue,
and she, with no diploma, has seven.
I am the first woman in this family
whose roots touch the international spring
of a renowned university.
Not because I grew tallest—
my Grandmother’s roots are longer,
she was just forced to grow in a pot,
when society kept women as indoor plants,
her roots coiled around the pot’s edges.
my life today, she wasn’t allowed to touch:
privilege a word lost in translation.
my Grandmother used her fingers
to plant her saplings in a forest,
where they would never know ceramic walls,
where they would grow without limits
and never lack fertiliser, nutrition or water.
I am their sapling:
when my roots drink,
I remember.
EXEUNT.