I’ll Give You a Haunting: A Crown of Sonnets
I am proud to be a queer Chinese American femme, and all of these facets of identity cannot be divorced from my work as a writer, teacher, editor, and advocate. An academic life is often synonymous with living in varied parts of the country, and I am happy to call Eau Claire, WI my home base. My mentees and students at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire show a bright potential, and every year, I help many achieve their creative and professional goals. My number one creative rule is to “Strike while the iron is hot,” and I love guiding young Midwestern writers on their poetic journeys, whether it’s creating haibun inspired by the landscape of Wisconsin; writing sonnets about their childhood; or finding ekphrastic impetus at a local gallery. - Dorothy Chan
Source: Public Domain
I.
In Season 2 of Netflix’s YOU, Forty
Laments to Amy they never lived out
Their spectral fantasies, like let’s pretend
I’m a ghost and we’ll fuck each other’s brains
Out. But I’d never fuck with a haunting
Because I’m an Asian femme who lives
Alone—safety first—we fear the unknown.
I wear red, even to bed, the Chinese color
Of prosperity and vitality. I call a lover
And say, “I don’t need you to protect me.”
At the end of the Haunted Mansion ride
In Disney, the spirits “follow you home,”
Prompting my father to tell me about
His life in a mainland boarding school.
II.
In his mainland boarding school, two classmates
Practiced fuji, using a planchette to contact
The spirit world. Bored Catholic school boys
Tired from trips to the mountains and playing
Pranks—the pure enticement of the unknown,
Until the summoned spirits followed them—
“For life,” according to my father. “The spirits
Never left their bodies. Even during meals.”
In grad school, friends and I visited a toy store,
Taking me back to my immigrant childhood
When my parents let me buy Park Place and
Boardwalk to take the win. I hold Ouija,
Wondering about how the body responds
Subconsciously when “promised” the occult.
III.
I promise my mother not to contact any spirits,
Though I believe in science—and so does she.
But Chinese superstitions ring deep. As a co-ed
In college in Hong Kong, they’d share ghost
Stories: The Braided Girl Crying at Night or
The Legend of Ponytail Road: male students
At sundown saw her stunning silhouette from
Behind, only to reveal her faceless front—
An urban myth passed down through generations.
Her facelessness, because in life, she fell face-
First into Kowloon railroad tracks. Her face-
Lessness, because poetry teaches us symbolism.
I wonder if she yearns for her lover, especially
In this liminal life—would love conquer all?
IV.
To ensure the deceased don’t experience limbo,
We burn incense papers for our ancestors.
My mother calls it “paying toll” for your
Loved ones while they enter the next plane.
I’ve heard about loved ones requesting final
Arrangements: Just spread my ashes in the sea.
Poetry teaches us infinite metaphors for water—
You rise out of the water—it brings you peace—
I’ve heard stories of the living getting dreams
From the deceased saying: “It’s so cold here”
[In the water]. My mother tells me about families
Burning diving suits to keep their loved ones’
Bodies warm in the next life. Poetry teaches us
About heart. I want my heart held, my body warm.
V.
I want my heart held, my body warm. When I
Feel something, I end up sharing grief. It’s all-
Consuming. At five-years-old, I watched my
Grandmother die on our family room couch
In Allentown, Pennsylvania. My father called
A priest to bless her into the next plane—
Watching death as a child changes you, even
Haunts you with wisdom, with Truth, with
Something impenetrable in your lil black eyes
That puzzles strangers and lovers alike. Love
Changes you and magnifies grief. When I love
I’ll tell you how in Chinese culture, we believe
When our loved ones pass and visit us in dreams,
It’s real. Temporarily, we’re on the same plane.
VI.
I think about alternate planes and dimensions
On this very earth. In middle school, we read
“Rip Van Winkle,” and on an evening car ride,
My parents brought up mountains in rural China,
Speculating if isolated areas lead to traveling to
Different dimensions. In personality tests,
People are challenged to name what they fear
Most. Would you rather enter the castle or
Walk this earth alone? Isolation is haunting,
But the castle contains politics and people.
When I can’t sleep at night, I remember how
The Tucks in Tuck Everlasting were haunted to
Live forever, after drinking from a spring—
Here, water represents the Fountain of Youth.
VII.
In her youth, my mother and her sisters shopped
At the sundry stores of Bowring Street, Kowloon,
Coming home with sodas and chocolate and
Laughter. In my youth, my mother teaches me
About respecting our ancestors, how in Hong
Kong, people burn incense paper to “pay toll”
For their loved ones to enter the next life, but
It doesn’t stop there. Paper offering stores
In my homeland sell “clothes,” “shoes,” even
“iPhones” made of paper. But it doesn’t stop
There. What about a paper mini house and pool
Table and piano so your ancestors really thrive.
I want to thrive on this plane and the next, but
Filial piety teaches me to share—in community.
VIII.
In community, my mother and her classmates
Shared ghost stories back in college. Legend has it
Decades and decades ago, students who rented
Houses in the village would find their furniture
On the roof, upon arriving home from class.
Was it a fluke? A drunken mistake? They moved
The furniture back into the house, only to find
It on the roof once again. And again. And again.
The infinite. But my mother teaches me how
It’s eight, not seven, that’s the lucky number in
Chinese culture. Flip eight and you arrive at
Infinity. I tell a lover about the infinite ways
We can live out our fantasies—kisses and role
Play—but I’ll save the spectral for television.
