a poem on the crimes against Falun Gong perpetrated by the Chinese Communist Party

by Emma Yan

What is Falun Gong?
I
search, a tingle of interest inside me,
sparked by the very roots of my ancestry.
I
search and
I
find words after words dripping with the very own blood of my people.
The truth scorches my back and
I
fall to the ground, just as my people have fallen.
I
cry out, to my grandfather, calling him to me, for
We
are blood and my blood is his very own,
drip-drip-dripping on the cold, wood floor of the prison cell.
“Grandfather?”
I
call through the echoes of the chambers
and he greets me, his silence frightening but usual.
I
lavish in his gaze, smooth from glaring,
and he opens the cell door and holds out his hand.
I
smile and take it, the warmth in him becoming me because
We
are blood.
We
walk, my feet tapping, his silent, until we reach an iron door.
Grandfather squeezes my hand and brings me in
and that is when the burn begins.
“Too hard,”
I
say, tugging at Grandfather’s hand, but he squeezes harder and there’s that tingle again.
The tingle of the burn that was on my back, it runs, no sprints right up my arm,
then it’s on my shoulders and my back again, and suddenly
I
am screaming for him.
I
Scream for him to let go, let go, but then it’s too late, for these men have appeared,
Caps and uniforms, gowns and badges, and
I
am pinned down on this table in there,
an iron table in an iron room,
No flowers, not even light, to end my days.
I
Don’t scream anymore as they rip it out, for
We
Are not one anymore, it is his now.
My heart, my heart, he’s stolen it away.

* * *

 

Recognized as an Honorable Mention in FoFG’s 2022 Poetry Contest