Swallowing Made In China 2022
In between the verses leaks toxic chemicals with unreadable names, the odour of sweat-drenched coal-smeared bodies, dark pig’s blood soup and cigarettes. Then the vivid reds of temporary residence permits and blood-shot eyes of workers on nightshifts; the occasional braised pork belly and irregular periods; the burning iron and the cheeks of lovers; the poppies back home and the blood bursting from severed fingers. They seeped and drenched the ivory pages. And I hear the symphony of cling-clanks, blasts, beeps and squeaks echoing the rhythm of Qin Opera and the rhythmic creaking of cots, in the silence of the poets, in the darkness of nights.
They are the verses of Iron Moon (2016), a collection of Chinese urban migrant workers’ poems edited by Qin and translated by Goodman, the primary inspiration of this piece. The poems left me marks I can only illustrate with the very words that score them, and the verses in which the words are taken are found beside them. These voices ought to be heard by more.