Self-Portrait with Eyes Closed

—Bei Dao, "Answer"

I.

Perched on the cliff side overlooking a black sea,

my wings the color of earth. Body of a bird,

face of a woman. My face turned aside, my blue

eyes closed. Just below me a nest of small white

bodies, my children’s mouths open,

throats the color of blood. The moon

rising over the ocean like a claw caught

in the night sky, hooked to its jaw. Wind

in my feathers. I will not watch the stars watch

me with their gold and distant eyes.

II.

I began this life as a loggerhead, legs flesh-wings.

One morning I dug out of the nest and made

for the tide, shell made of skin, black dots for eyes.

I followed the light out past the breakers, then deep,

lost in the blue, hiding in grasses on the bottom

of the sea. I waited through the Lost Years,

danger everywhere. And I grew.

III.

Out through the shipping channels, swimming the skies

Of ocean. Once I broke the surface and became something

human, came ashore and lived for years in a Lost Land, drawing

shapes in the sand. I made love to nothing,

stars and waves, my son born in pain

made of water and light, and when a ship came,

I gave him away.

IV.

The birds came for me as I grew older, my body

growing wan, bones hollow, brown feathers

pushing through my skin—only my face remained

the same. I flew one morning

over unexplored countries, over ships

with their warm lights like constellations

cast over the black water. Ancient now, I settled

on the cliffs, old as the stone

gripped in my taloned feet.

I have watched the night for years

as my children grew, took flight.

Now I turn my woman’s face away

from the stars and their shunning light,

away from the sea.

I close my eyes and wish my wish:

Be. Simply be.