Fans
for Nolan
Morning, I tell my betta, Beau,
how beautiful he is. He fans out sideways
turquoise, crimson and green for my
inspection. It's introspection time for she
who wears a writer's hat, anytime is writing time,
and she sees again through the window where
she works the stately oak, talking to itself,
thanks to the leafy wind from the lake that
clears its throat. It's shaped symmetrically
like the Chinese fan I yearned for, spread out
in Bo Song's parents' laundry window down-
town on Third Street, the one the father I
was named for bought me when I was nine
before the blood clot in his leg found home-
base in his heart, and I was suddenly
twelve, bereft of sire, almost a woman,
alone to fan her way through her
thirteenth summer.
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