SICK
JODY CHAN
www.blacklawrence.com
Executive Editor: Diane Goettel
Cover Design: Zoe Norvell
Cover Art: Wy Joung Kou
Book Design: Amy Freels
Copyright © 2020 Jody Chan
ISBN: 978-1-62557-819-8
All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be
reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher:
editors@blacklawrencepress.com
Published 2020 by Black Lawrence Press.
Printed in the United States.
The epigraph to this book is taken from Freshwater copyright © 2018 by Akwaeke Emezi. Used by permission
of Grove/Atlantic, Inc. All rights reserved.
for all my mothers, by blood & by blessing
table of contents
ghost 3
split
the first spring we planted perennials 7
superstitions 8
origin story 9
allegation 10
telling my mother I miss her 11
preservation 12
not safe, not on fire 13
in which I run into Medusa at Sephora 15
beauty secrets 16
unpacking 17
the first time I return to New York 18
telling my mother I’m not her daughter 19
bloodplay 20
a study of Vicks Vaporub, ending with your heart in a freezer 22
music video where Teresa Teng plays my dead mother and I play myself 23
Episode 1, Life 25
letter from the city to the firefly 26
inheritance 27
her hand 28
instructions for inserting an IUD 29
after the flood, I dream of toilets 30
not here 32
migratory patterns 34
parts
Teresa Teng marries everyone at the NHK Tokyo Hall 39
therapist’s note 40
// hungry ghost 41
during the day, listen to Old Deng. at night, listen to Little Teng 43
for my own good 44
therapist’s note: July 6 2018 45
asking Teresa Teng out on a date 46
favourite person 47
borderline personality disorder: an episode in parts 48
favourite person 49
music video where Taylor Swift is a cardiac surgeon and
I am a dying bird 50
why Teresa Teng is my dream girl 52
Mommy 53
therapist’s note: July 27 2018 54
aubade for the BPD subreddit user who wrote
can people with BPD love? 56
long distance relationship with Teresa Teng 58
therapist’s note: August 24 2018 59
favourite person 61
my father speaks to Teresa Teng 62
between
not a woman, not not a woman 65
flying lessons 66
Teresa Teng sends fan mail to Anna May Wong 67
ode to my depression 69
home remedies 70
tooth fairy 71
re: an incel’s guide to frightening girls 73
last night with Teresa Teng 75
showing up to Sunday dim sum with a fresh shave 76
frequently asked questions 77
Vancouver seawall, third bench from the water 79
elegy for the pre-packaged pie I ate on March 14, 2018 80
let me help you with your feelings 81
feel better soon 82
bodyload 83
flight risk 84
after the apocalypse, I visit CAMH 86
2010, the last night at Zipperz that all of us are still alive 88
instructions for removing an IUD 89
last word 90
not heaven, not ordinary 91
letter for my future daughters 92
this is an offering 93
acknowledgments 95
This is all, ultimately, a litany of madness—the colors of it, the sounds it makes
in heavy nights, the chirping of it across the shoulder of the morning.
—Akwaeke Emezi, Freshwater
ghost
at the funeral we learn to substitute a stone for a mother
begrudge this stolen soil for swallowing our mother
there is an ocean between me & what I miss a constant
gravity tiding Hong Kong history homeland mother
every flight & phone call a clumsy stutter towards family
across static corridors foraged words my lost mother
tongue calls out for discipline bows beneath its fledgling
Cantonese as to the heft of a grave & unfamiliar mother
who could have taught me to press dough into dumplings
seal the skin to prevent rupture a burdened mother
the kind our fathers fed their fictions to betray
the lineage of our mothers & our mother’s mothers
he named me for her in English & in Chinese
to practice or commit to memory as in poetry or a mother
3
split
it felt like an undeserved miracle, that four hours
of fingers kneading earth could lead to a lifetime’s
flowers, that each year a different brood of blooms
would crown gingerly through the snow-drowned
soil, a new cacophony declaring arrival, cautiously—
in Cantonese we do not say dead
we say not here and imply for now as if loyalty is an antidote
for death. imagine our betrayal when the irises and bee
balm and Veronicas didn’t sprout the following summer
like when your body didn’t return from North York General
and Dad swore his hands would never bury anything again
that had no hope for resurrection. that spring, we scourged
our nails of pallbearers’ dirt. we drank need
like water, tended our garden on faith.
we didn’t ask for rain. careless.
what did we know of permanence?
some things are worth the pain of losing.
when May comes, Dad crouches on his plastic stool
in the front yard, tucks his long-sleeved flannel
into his jeans and turns fragile seeds into being and counts
the ones that didn’t and lays tulips on your grave and still
the cemetery hurtles to life under a blanket of dandelions
still you sleep, not here, for now
7
getting a haircut in the year’s first month portends the death
of an uncle eating fish will bring your family abundance
meaning eight sounds the same as meaning wealth
& hair eight is the luckiest number but avoid the number
four at all times the Beijing Olympics opened at 8:08 on August 8
2008 red is the colour of the flag & also fortune meaning four
sounds the same as meaning dead this elevator lacks
a button for the fourth floor never order exactly four
dishes at a restaurant on new year’s children receive red
envelopes stuffed with money meaning to gift
a clock sounds the same as meaning to attend a funeral
& to run out of time white is not to be worn
on the body white is not to be used to decorate the home
red is the colour of blood betraying the skin & life
means leaving the body so means not here
not red white is the colour of funerals & foreigners
when eating rice do not leave your chopsticks upright
in the bowl like incense
never give anyone a clock
8
dinner plates hurled at the wall
puddling between shards of soapwater
bows hurled at ’s headstone
we forgot its coordinates
maple tree rusted hose
I told she wasn’t family
a graceless child
one recess I muddied my only jacket
pristine ice crimsoned
my face breached to reveal
shame stuck to the dressing
shame stuck to the seam
my fascination ’s knee
goosebump between boot & skirt
guilt pungent as onions
I dream on wet pillows
wake hollowed of history
a runaway an orphan
the spiderplant shrivels
long I search for a reason
I too deserve to die young
9
it was late I was lonely I wore leggings a hoodie we were [friends]
I thought I might want until I knew I did not
such as comfort such as [ ] company he didn’t notice
I didn’t tell him [ ] I cried the whole time
he [didn’t] notice
the walls their grip on the ceiling
his forehead ragged with concentration
his Radiohead Arcade Fire
I willed the walls let go
I didn’t report there was nothing to gain
he texted me I texted back
the week before we wrote our together
mac and cheese I scrubbed the dishes [scrubbed]
my body became a portrait of
my body soapy water smeared between and after
my grip on certainty
I didn’t say [no] did I
know I could I willed myself to
[let go] I deleted his
I made better other calluses
other mattresses to
here’s what you want to know
I don’t owe [you] anything
10
