XXThe Hiss Quarterly || Volume IV, Issue 3

ISSN 1556-245X

Bob Bradshaw

Chinese Bride, San Francisco 1912

I expected to find a rich husband
in San Francisco.
My mother had arranged a lucky day
for me to marry. I was to meet
a man in a dark suit.

He has delicate hands, Mother said.
Look for a man with servants
swarming around him.

A small man in shirt sleeves
met me at the dock. He smiled slyly.
He picked my baggage up and carried it
with my future

to a small apartment. His mother
greeted me, "Where is
your dowry?" Then she swore,
"She's as poor as a tick.
Send her back."

But China wasn't a village
down a dusty road. Instead
I wiped the apartment's greasy walls
and waitressed during the day. I waited
on my mother-in-law at night, serving
her tea, cooking her soups.

"A son is all I ask,"
she reminded me. "He can be your dowry."

I would write back to China. "Mother,
I am busy scolding the servants.
Take care of your health.
I will send for you soon."

Nieces, nephews wrote asking
for money from their rich
auntie. Their pleas I carried
close to my heart, but

I could only imagine the stinginess
they divined in me. But what
could I do? Each girl I gave birth to
my mother-in-law scorned.
"Where is our heir?" she would ask.

My feet swollen, carrying a hill,
I would be trailed by her
in the market, her nagging
as predictable as daily servings

of rice. I would write home,
Mother, don't worry.
Mother-in-law treats me
as if I were her favorite daughter,
and she lavishes my girls
with red envelopes.

© Bob Bradshaw

Ishi: The Last Survivor Of The Yahi, 1886

Tears stung Ishi's eyes.
His mother, the last survivor
of his tribe, lay sprawled
in the dusk, embracing
only the earth.

It was hard to stand up
and move on. There was a diet
of grief, and little else.
His voice grew unfamiliar.
It was an effort
to speak. A harshness
stuttered out. The voice
was as unwelcomed to his ears
as an iron trap was
to his eyes.

He walked the woods
and hills every day in meager clothing
and bare feet
until darkness
pushed him onto his back.
Perhaps he would stumble onto someone
with a similar dialect. Just keep walking,
Ishi told himself. But
he saw few animal tracks.
And few humans, as he veered wide
of fences and barns.
For weeks he had wandered beyond the range
of his tribe. He felt like a tortoise
crossing a dry river bed:
everything felt alien
and desolate. There would be no sudden
hope around the corner. Loneliness
kept pushing him on
like a river nudging a fallen tree
towards the coast.
Was this what a land
and its people came to? He refused
to believe it. His feet,
stubborn in their faith
of better times,
walked
on.