from 离开的人和留下的人 (2024) [“Those Who Leave,
Those Who Stay”]
Translated from the Mandarin Chinese by Ban Yan
To Friends
1.
Listen—
Let me lean closer and crouch down
like I always do. You purse your lips, head-bowed, mono-lids docile,
watch me rise from the marshes, rise in the attic’s moonlight,
rise from the sharp tang of street gases—chest heaving, huffing angrily
or covered in a thin sheen of sweat…face glowing.
You take my hand—you are ashamed to show off your own, each digit
dark, bloated, callused. When not working, they slot into pockets, or curl up; there are some carefree moments, like when they swim inside my body? Those swollen folds…the friction of calluses…
Inside a pitch-dark, spasming parcel, how confident they are; I am willing to safeguard your pride.
After our cold war, I wait at a distance until you nibble through a flatbread and recover your mysterious elegance, only then do I approach you
for that lost memory card, even though inside it there are
Fingers broken off from workers
(the new calluses are like freshly grafted branches)
Bloodied faces of the defiant
(just ten minutes ago, their sweat still mingled with tears)
The wife of the arrested showing her faith (among heaps of children’s toys, a pair of eyes like torches, a finger raised to the sky)
Even if all of these should be memorialized, I only kept
a soft sigh. You, still pursing your lips, head-bowed, mono-lids docile,
watch me leave.
You never tried to keep me, like how I
never tried to keep you; I know
you would never know—you were busy
with your exile at the border or on the mattresses of different women
(Agitated but proudly, tired but intensely)
Only now
am I willing to believe that you love each one of us
including who I was.
2.
Don’t mind what I just said.
Sometimes, my words are cutting, but my heart
holds no grudge. I can see
that your eyelids are twitching, I know
this is you struggling to balance your kindness with your need to defend your sense of self. I guess
you were hardened since childhood, but you try to share a little poetry with those around you. In this entire world,
you are the last person I want to fight against.
“Human rights”
“Independence”
“The anonymous”
Decades pass,
Whether beautifully long-haired or completely shaven
(you lead a radical life)
Whether as a defiant lover or as a child changing your mother’s diapers (you spurn earthly desires)
When you talk about these words, your tone never wavers, as if
you can come alive just by dueling their enemies; but I get a bit tired
of those obstinate, tangled, lofty things…
On the road of finding one’s own nature
I smooth over human nature—
Neither annihilating the people in the system, nor beautifying my
neighbors
What you transferred is tenderness—
You rage against the representatives of power, but you forgive the banality of evil (I really can’t stand you sometimes)
The sun was pretty bright that day, you came to the park to ask me
How monks managed their hunger despite eating only twice a day, I said
Maybe we wanted to change too many things. That day
your eyelids didn’t twitch. I gave you a small parcel of millet and mushrooms and instructions on food therapy.
You gave me a vase of Indian mints
(the pale fingers of their new roots, reaching)
then pressed your palms together, no longer accepting offerings from
anyone.
Years later, thanks to your instructions, many plants receive my care as I wipe the dust from their skin
leaf after leaf. And you, in a temple or holy land somewhere, sweeping,
meditating, growing vegetables, leading a life where you won’t go hungry even if you only eat twice a day.
We two, a pair of pebbles
at long last, no longer need to talk
But we can’t stop grinning.
3.
Turns out
this is what it feels like to have an artsy girlfriend,
I thought, fingers rubbing the pendant you handed me, embedding my
skin
into those chaotic yet attractive grooves. You were sulking,
turning your head towards the window of the taxi, but then
I got a full view of your jawline and the elegant sweep of your neck.
It was so hard not to fantasize about you.
When you asked me what I like about you, I said:
Maybe it’s the mole on the tip of your nose.
(Unlike the one at the corner of my mouth that always roam when I talk,
yours was just there, steadfast and clear)
You would be leaving tonight.
I helped you pack this afternoon, your stubborn little mouth kept on
mumbling
How no one in this homeland loves you:
Weibo deleted your posts—you stuffed in a patterned sock
WeChat banned your account—electric toothbrush, face-wash
Netizens nitpicked your voice—Notebook computer, bluetooth
headphones
Colleagues at school slandered you—wormwood essential oil,
embroidered tote bag
The party secretary sent detectives after you—breakup letter from a girl,
ibuprofen
Even your stern mother would rather cuddle the kitten during a typhoon instead of seeing you off—
How I wanted to crouch down, wipe away those tears with my own hands, and solemnly tell you:
Someone in this homeland loves you. Bang!
You slammed the suitcase shut (with a thunderclap), I trembled
until my eyes regained tenderness and handed you a tissue:
“Hope everything goes well for you.”
Everything did go well for you. At least according to the Facebook photos
You have a girlfriend with a beautiful smile. She wears a pendant that (maybe) you made (this one’s much better polished)
You have colleagues who actually show teeth when they smile and students who won’t report you, sitting on a lovely grass lawn in front of an
ancient clock tower
breathing air that isn’t damp, no smog in sight. You say what you want
and do what you want, you have new worries. While I am still
drunk on the thought of your mole. So many afternoons, me on this
recliner,
still waiting for the face that carries it to descend…
Breathlessly, for a long while.
Wan Qing (b. 1993, Chongqing) has been based in Guangzhou since 2011. Her early practice centered on exploring a range of social issues and their dynamics. In recent years, her focus has shifted toward interactions with the environment and subjects, opening her work to uncertainty and synchronicity, as seen in works like the Walking Trilogy. In late 2022, she began Symbiosis, an ongoing series of collaborative works with friends from diverse backgrounds. Her Movements series comprises embodied practices enacted across various social spaces. Wan is also a member of Yi Qi Lian Gong (Energy Waving Collective) and Theatre 44, the initiator of limilink, a caretaker of Qiantai osf, and a practitioner of Five Element Acupuncture.
Ban Yan is a poet and translator currently based in Chicago. Her most recent works are featured or forthcoming in Mouse Magazine, Voice and Verse Poetry Magazine, Hayden’s Ferry Review, and Ground Sea (2025) by te editions.