Two Poems by Qiang Meng

Great Fish in the Sky

Taroko the whale shark died 18 years
after his relocation to the Georgia Aquarium.

Acquired from an illegal fish market,
he would need a shroud the size of a school bus.

I often think of his single trip: sealed in artificial
seawater, in the largest container

a UPS cargo plane has ever delivered
from Taipei to Anchorage, then to Atlanta.

From beneath, we counted the freckled spots
under Taroko’s chin like wild stars.

We travel across seas and glaciers
to be each other’s brief gallery.

Now the cabin lights dim—liquid
night fills this aircraft’s windows.

Next to my seat is a headphoned woman
absorbed in her screen, one finger

tapping and dancing to a music video.
Her infant sobs in a language of his own.

Either the boy knows his mother won’t listen
but speaks anyway, or he will learn.

We arrive as if through a shark tunnel,
doubting we are loved at every departure.

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General Tso’s Phantom

I stroll past Chinatown where General Tso
beats an old carpet on his balcony. No history
textbook explains his unforeseen migration

after his every attempt to save our motherland.
I wonder if I’m too adaptable to be saved,
like the mule trudging through a red desert

during General Tso’s reconquest of Xinjiang.
Back then, his blue cloak fluttered
heroically in the goose-feather snow

no tea tycoon from Jiangnan had ever seen.
Back then, General Tso had bowed farewell
to his concubine Zhang, whose eyebrows lowered

like the tender leaves of a willow. I wonder
if General Tso accepts homesickness
as a medal to honor one’s bravery

in the timeless battle for being understood.
Only now could General Tso beat a carpet as freely
as he wants. Only here would people translate

his name into an armada of sweetness.
But who will forgive General Tso’s decision
to go? When he goes, who will cushion his feet?

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