Tiananmen— June 4, 1990

Last night dreaming of cobblestone blackened of walking through an ancient oriental square behind a yellow woman
with a single plait of black hair running down her back—
ruins— how the statues of loving couples writhed.

The evacuation was taking place, dark police on shiny
horses. Planes were flying low. Even now, it has become
a ritual. Nightly, at six and eleven, we lean on cushions in
velour robes dazed by the electronic spectacle. By day,

The students’ fervor burns— by night, heat electrified by constant lamps in the square. Daughter, when you were
four, you asked, “Where is the sun going every night after it leaves us?” Televised and bleary, images wafted in and
out of our vision like courage in our hearts. On steps of

The Monuments, students beg to surrender their weapons.
We yawned in pain. The soldiers refused. Before midnight,
the warnings, within the camera’s view, the students took
apart 23 assault rifles, assorted explosives, poured
gasoline at the base of the steps of the Monuments.

You are sixteen— like these students. Do you remember
we answered, “The sun went to China to wake up children
and panda there.” We poured hot tea over ice in our
tumblers watching it crack and sizzle. At 4, loudspeakers
issue forth the call— “Clear out!”

The light is lost until the red flares shoot into the sky.
Squadrons of soldiers advance in camouflage wearing
helmets and gas masks. The erection of 10 machine guns
right before the Monument to the Heroes. Soldiers prone,
their backs to the Gate of Heavenly Peace.

The commitment of students is an act of trust, of giving
over. What is it? What is this fire for which there is no water?

The soldiers move forward with electric cattle prods and
rubber truncheons to break up the groups and surround
the students. Workers, students attack the army with
sticks. Three thousand students escaped.
They wept— weeping they ran.

It’s too early for the solstice, the days get longer. Let
darkness heal them. By 5 a.m., anyone who escaped
had done so. Women stripped off all their clothes for
bandages. Many were trampled.

What kind of womb is this? Honor them with jasper,
carnelian, red wood. Is there no redemption in this blood?
By 6:30 a.m. soldiers collected corpses in plastic bags,
piled one on top of another, covering them with canvas.
They prevented the Red Cross from getting the bodies.

Children, you have seen the light so early, have received
the rays of the sun and known freedom by its own name.