Tiananmen Mother
for Zhao Ziyang
by Michael Wells
The Beijing breeze whispers
mournful strophes.
Tears like the mountain rains
follow slopes
to tributaries until they become one
with the rippling waters of the Yangtze.
I am a Tiananmen mother.
My eyes have swelled
with this sadness before.
The wetness follows a path
well-rehearsed.
My nights are immense.
I am a lone bare branch
in a dark cold world.
They replicate
that June night
etched in my soul
over and over.
My son stood
in the square
armed only
with a vision
and they came—
The People’s Army.
My son stood
in Tiananmen Square,
amid a sea of other
sons and daughters
and they came—
armored tanks
clanking along the streets into Tiananmen
driven by fear, ordered by paranoia.
Our sons and daughters
toppled to the earth
at their hands.
Crimson crawling into every crevice
of these ancient streets;
a stain still upon us today.
I cannot count the nights
I have wept
for my son since.
Today, I weep for another.
There is no official news
but the Beijing breeze whispers again,
this time for the death of the old man.
There are guards outside my door.
The lump in my throat is big,
I cannot begin to swallow.
That is how I know the truth.
Guilt always gnawing at my heart.
I could not help my son that June night.
Again as I am helpless.
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Originally published by the Independent Chinese PEN Center.
This is one of my favorite published pieces because of the story of its metamorphosis. I was at a writers retreat in a small community in Iowa and in a larger breakout group session we were instructed to write a small one to three act play. This was something I was not keen about doing. I think I recall saying out loud, I’m a poet not a playwright with a distinctly sarcastic tone. So I wrote what was on my mind at the time in a two act play. When we later read the work aloud it was very positively received. I came home from the retreat with it and a number of other drafts. I liked the concept and the subject and reworked it into a witness poem with a strong anmemorable impact.
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MICHAEL WELLS calls Kansas City home but claims the San Francisco Giants as his baseball team. He is an alumnus of the Writer to Writer program. His genre is primarily poetry. He likes his wine white and his coffee black. michaelwells.ink