Sport 27: Spring 2001
He wants to know if we're
going by rocket. We arrive
by Mitsubishi and a Bachelor of Science.
He spends all his planets riding
the train, points at the castle
festooned with waterslides.
‘A church! A church!’ he cries.
This is his view of heaven.
In the playground, a girl calls to her
brother, ‘Look out for the Chinese boy.’
I look at my son. He can say bum, fart
and all kinds of body parts—all in Chinese.
He has dark blonde hair.
‘I am Chinese,’ he says proudly.
‘When I'm an adult, I will eat my vegetables.
I will be a woman.’
His father and he sit in semi-darkness.
They are watching Shortland Street.
I bring in dinner, turn on another light.
‘You're a good woman,’ he says.
He holds up his red Snoopy fork:
he has stabbed a fish nugget.
‘When I eat them they are dead,’ he says.
He lies in bed cuddling a pair of
cotton shorts he wore last summer.
‘This is my baby,’ he says. ‘Sasha.’
She has geometric tattoos
and a big rip in her backside.
He holds Sasha to my cheek. I wonder
if I washed her after the accident,
but she has no odour. He puts
a small hand through the torn fabric.
‘My baby is broken,’ he says.
He rides a rocking hamburger
alongside his two best girlfriends.
This is where they discuss
the meaning of life and happiness.
‘Vagina,’ one says. ‘Piss,’ he says, laughing.
Later coming down the stairs, the other
sister smiles. ‘Piss you off,’ she says.
That night his father asks,
‘You know what vagina means,
don't you?’ ‘Yes,’ he says, smiling,
‘I love Sasha and Courtney.’