THE TRUMPET

As farewell you give me a painting:
a gull sips water from a mirror through which
a woman is looking at herself. She sees
her own image tremor slightly, like a sound
tremors. A flower sticks its neck into the water.
I’m learning the trumpet these days.

Forecast has predicted rain for days.
I’ve been home, sorting the paintings
you’ve left. I also need to water
the plants. I watch a music video in which
two girls are playing, making sounds
like small pigeons. I wish you could see.

My mother calls from her trip, she sees
a most beautiful cathedral. All day
she could sit in it, and a bell would sound.
The ceiling, she says, has paintings
with five concentric levels which
shine in sunlight like clear water.

She knew none of the figures in the water.
Cleaning your scrap paper, I see
from your desk, many clouds which
twirl beneath the storm! Another day  
I saw a herring gull. Your paintings.
They’re so quiet, without sound.

They’re scary. Not because they don’t sound,
but because like how the gull dives into water
to catch fish, they’re precise. Painting
colors, you seal what you see
into a sleeve. Day
after day, with a brush which

pierces like a knife, a sword, which
one did you use? ————No sound.
I’ve been practicing too, days
since you left. I drink a lot of water,
observe in the mirror the motion of my chest. See
how it moves like your hands, painting

a sound against water
from which one day a girl appears; She sees
me, waves, leaps into the sea——I can paint 






In memory of poet Consuela Sufei Yang (1990-2025)

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from Issue 7 of Works & Days

Read more here

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By yun qin wang 👍