I enjoy “White Bird Morning” by Mai Lon Gittelsohn for many reasons. The poem situates me in the familiarity of an early Sunday morning and then takes a turn into territory that is new to me. It isn’t long before the rich detail informs me that the poem is about the circumstances of a particular time and place in this country’s past. The images from an ethnic childhood in a San Francisco community and the unsettled feelings of a young girl combine to draw me into the story of this white bird. When the white bird exits and the poem ends, the last line brings me back to the present, with a touch of ethnicity that resonates nicely against the rest of the poem. It seems to say that no matter what the circumstances of our individual lives, every one of us is a part of the flow of time and impacts others, leaving a legacy and building bonds.

Mai Lon’s poem reminds us that in writing, we must allow ourselves to make leaps of association from what we see and hear to what we remember from past times. In addition, her poem teaches us to have confidence in the images of our time and place. It is when we use details that appeal to our five senses that readers become involved in our scenes and feelings and connect with emotions of their own, no matter the diversity of our backgrounds and history. — Sheila

****

White Bird Morning
by Mai Lon Gittelsohn

Still in my nightgown, I wallow in the Sunday comics,
look out the window at joggers heading down 11th Street,
flashes of brown as birds dive in and out of the feeder
through the bushes, a flash of white.

A woman, no bird at all, jiggles and bounces
her way to my door, her tail a train of silver sequins,
her wings a fan of Ostrich feathers. She pokes
the doorbell with a long fingernail, peers through the window.

 Too late to hide in the shower, I crack the door, squint
into the misty morning light. Her voice flutes high
like bird song. “I see you’re not expecting me.” I brush
toast crumbs from my lips, croak, “I’m not expecting anyone!
It’s only seven in the morning. Do I know you?”

The bird song again. This time edgy, reproachful.
“Of course you know me!” She stamps her foot, blood
red toenails, 3-inch heels. “Aren’t you going to let me in?
I’m freezing out here. Del Mar, just like San Francisco.
Too much fog!” Her lips tremble into a smile.

“We’re old friends. You’ve known me since you were
twelve years old. I can see you now at the Forbidden City,
thick glasses on your nose, reading a book. Your father leans
forward, his hands press down on his thighs. Your mother
half-smiles, looks down at the table. Your three sisters
nurse their drinks, watch my every move.

“It’s not like the old times, the club full of sailors
shipping out. The war ends. No more servicemen.
Instead we get the locals curious to see naughty Chinese
girls, dancing in their underwear. You stop reading, take
a slow sip from your glass, pop the red cherry into your mouth.”

I taste again the cloying grenadine syrup, bite of ginger
ale in the Shirley Temple. “I heard the M.C. say,
Let’s welcome the lovely Jade Wong! The band began to play
In a Chinese Temple Garden. You came out and…” Bird lady
nods, “When I hear my music, so–so chop suey, I make sure
my G-string is in place, check my pasties, find the light.
And then I see you, front and center.

“I duck back behind the curtain and I ask the M.C. what that kid
is doing in a nightclub. He says, ‘It’s OK. She won’t
even notice you. Look at her, her nose in a book.’
The music swells and I forget about you, sway
from side to side, lift the fan, let it drift down, remember
the war days, handsome young men, their sweat
and fear in the room, their mouths ready for kissing.”

“Jade! I’ve never forgotten you. I didn’t finish my homework
when I saw you slip out of your robe like a butterfly
from a cocoon. I couldn’t stop peeking at you, your skin
like coffee with cream. When a man came out of the darkness
and grabbed you around the waist, I wanted to help you.
You struggled like a bird trapped in a net, but the musicians
kept playing. You danced, he danced, until he stumbled and ripped
your train as he fell. Sequins winked from the floor like fallen stars.”

She’s gone. I sip cold coffee. No more bird song.
Chinese temple music echoes in my ears.