Ama requests (一) help to collect fruit from the tree (二) outside. She hands me a green garbage (三) bag and points to where I need to stand (四). Dew drops, sharp scent (五), eight a.m. wind (六) on bare (七) arms, mud clawing at our (八) torn tennis shoes. They come in (九) clusters of two or three or six, sprouting leaves (十) like tufts of hair. Ama circles (十一) the tree, crouching (十 二) like a woman who isn’t seventy-seven, checkered (十三) flannel picking up chunks of (十四) dirt. I’m (十五) picking (十六) the big (十七) ones, she says, mixing Chinese (十八) adjective with English verb (十九). What can I (二十) see, what can I hear—nothing, but (二十一) ripe yellow skin, spare (二十二) zest, a ladybug (二十 三) nibbling brown tip, nothing (二十四) but footstep squish Ama marveling (二十 五) at the size of the citrus. [Remember: too brown (二十六) is better than too green (二十七)]. When Ama is finished (二十 八), she claps my shoulder (二十九) and steers me inside. She doesn’t (三十) want any, the harvest is a Christmas gift for my family (三十 一), she insists, then begins fixing herself a plate of leftover beef and cabbage in the kitchen (三十二).
Matt Hsu is a student from San Francisco, California. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and he’s published or forthcoming in The B’K, Kissing Dynamite Poetry, Sine Theta Magazine, and Paddler Press. Currently, he's querying his first novel: a twisty, thriller-mystery about a crafty assassin. You can find him on Twitter at @MattHsu19 or at his personal website matthsu156538437.wordpress.com.
