Translated by Emily Lu
Taipei Basin
I’m the one scrubbing the basin mould in the bottom of Taipei basin
thanks humidity of the basin thanks feet
thanks face I’m ladling water mostly at night while petting a cat
thanks hands looks like my kid is grown
looks like the cat’s body caught the late afternoon sun
thanks Taipei fifth floor old apartment for spilling two hours of sunlight
those landlords have kidnapped all of the light
renovating the roofs wider and wider faces wider and wider nails longer and longer
thanks bookstores each one settled on my body
each one here reconciling I touch paper touch dark, soft soil
thanks for saying those tactless words making those useless things
thanks dogs barking the dogs roused the slumbering Taipei residents
Taipei has one-fifth sunlight one-half pets
I’ve gone to school in Taipei had a job and a credit card
ultimately putting on these clothes
they fit well but are incapable of flight
cut off strands of time to go to the pool to idle
carry me Taipei
carry your urge to pee your toilet paper
in the drawing you resemble Taipei less and less after all you’ve never heard praise
I’m the one scrubbing the toilet scrubbing the windowless toilets in the old Taipei apartments
I’m the one scrubbing for too long
poems too short
it is my hair that fell out of my eye
it is my body’s namelessness
it is the face that appeared in my vision
it is Taipei’s dark eyes that lost an ear
lost a face
they fly away in flocks
it is me who can’t answer Taipei’s question
I have no face to answer questions
yesterday I lost a face
yesterday I used a cat’s face
it was me who eradicated
it was me who sat for too long
it was me who came too late
me who arrived on a Taipei side street
the detour the shape of a square
not too close to the heart
the other half of my body was pretty far off
it had grown to resemble the shape of a cat
and unreal
One Day
in the morning I was tossed to the dogs. at night also. afternoons I always felt sleepy.
already cleaned up. cleaning again. spent ten years. borrowing a cat’s body to live.
she likes revealing her white tummy fur. revealing a beach. stars. makes me happy.
eat a bowl of rice. toss a bag of trash. this isn’t anything. not the stars nor the moon.
this is one day. one day then another. one year then another.
Maniniwei is a Malay-Taiwanese writer and illustrator. She was writer-in-residence at Hong Kong Baptist University in 2021. Her works have been recognized by OPENBOOK, the Bologna Ragazzi Award, the Taoyuan Chung Chao-Cheng Award for Literature, and the National Culture and Arts Foundation. Emily Lu is a poet, translator, and psychiatrist. She is the author of the chapbooks there is no wifi in the afterlife (San Press 2022) and Night Leaves Nothing New (Baseline Press 2019). She lives in Toronto.