Two Poems by Allison Zhang

Porcelain Theory

I collect broken things—
a teacup with no handle,
a mirror in four neat pieces,
a cello string I wore
as a bracelet.

My mother says
everything breaks
if you press too hard—
voice, faith,
the dial on the radiator.

There’s worship
in returning to what’s fractured.
Gold veins in bowls.
A bruise teaching
the body to be louder.

Today I broke
the last plate on purpose—
just to hear
what it sounds like
to start again.

*

Etymology of a Shrug

The neurologist says it’s non-progressive.
Which feels generous.

At breakfast, my grandfather lifts a spoon,
stalls midair, points at the cereal.
Calls it sky.

I nod. Sure.
Everything falls eventually.

He once told me
the first English word he learned was wait.
It was also the last thing he said to me.
Maybe that’s coincidence.
Or a loop.

At the DMV, he gave his birth year as 1857.
Said his job was “still becoming.”
The clerk didn’t blink. Typed it in.

When he was nine,
a soldier asked his name.
He said it. They laughed.
That was the year he stopped answering.

The MRI lit his brain like a city after rain.
One hemisphere fogged.
The other—
a grocery list in half-light:
eggs.
mercy.
something that starts with forgive.

Yesterday, he pointed at a crow and said God.
Then laughed,
like the punchline arrived late.
I wrote it down anyway.

At the root, shrug means “to writhe.”
Which might explain how I love—
and why I wear jackets
with sleeves past my knuckles.

*

Allison Zhang is a poet and writer based in Los Angeles. An immigrant and bilingual speaker of English and Mandarin, she writes about inheritance, memory, and the quiet ruptures of daily life. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Pithead Chapel, SWWIM Every Day, Sky Island Journal, and others. She is the author of An Everlasting Bond, honored by the BookFest Spring Awards and the International Impact Book Awards.