Philly Poetry Chapbook Review is pleased to present four original poems by poet Sarena Tien as our sixth biweekly featured poet of the Winter 2025 issue.
Poems
Plants only my mother and I know
In her backyard garden, she dotes on her young flag tree, nourishes
it with vegetable scraps and fruit rinds and fish bones. She wants it to grow
strong, she says, burying her wishes above its roots. Her flag tree thrives
on the homemade compost and summer sun, and she proudly picks
ripe figs, sticky with fresh sap that trickle milk white down my fingers.
In the fall, she tells me about the cinnamon trees flowering nasturtium
yellow and orange in her neighbor’s front yard. The neighbor shares
some of the overabundant fruit with my mother, who in turn presents
me with persimmons. I tenderly test the skin, eagerly impatiently
waiting until it gives so that I can scoop the glossy flesh out with a spoon.
One visit, I notice a new plant by the front door, delicate tendrils curling
over the bushes. Dòudòu, she dubs them in Mandarin, and recruits me
to help gather bunches of the purple beans for dinner. But when I ask
what they taste like, she says like beans. My laugh isn’t verbena purple
like the flowers of the sugar magnolia snap peas, but my love is.
In memoriam: the grief I never grieved
I hate telling people that you passed away.
They tell me they’re sorry
but I’m not. I know I’m supposed to be—
in a simple world, families are bound by love and
daughters mourn their fathers.
But I forgot that love long ago—
like my Mandarin, I let it slip away
a song lost to silence
so I could wear its absence like armor.
At the funeral, when someone asked
how I was doing, I said I was good.
Part reflex, part truth. I realized too late
that word was not funereal vocabulary.
But I was fine until the eulogy
made dissonance drip down me
like sweat from the August humidity.
I wondered what it was like
to love and miss the stranger in the speech.
I know how grief is supposed to hurt.
When my brother died, I learned its language—
a lyrical lament of hopeless
wishes, bittersweet memories, and impossible
futures, each reminder
so painfully unpredictable and precious.
But all you left me with
was one happy memory and
one useful skill, not nearly enough
pieces to mourn. So I’m adrift
in this sea without a shore—
like salvation without sin, I never learned
how to grieve a father I never knew.
After Grad School
I know it feels like tendrils of stress have tangled
around your bones and you can’t see past
the thorny thicket of graduation anxiety, the uncertainty
of job applications and interviews and ghosting
but beyond your trellis cage, that oleander garden
trapping you in toxic judgment and competition
there’s a fern and flower future flourishing
a forest of possibilities waiting to be harvested
and when that fruit and foliage come within reach
you’ll remember the simplicity of happiness
like the fluffiness of a baked Korean sweet potato
caramelized sugars sticking all over your fingers
the afternoon sun scattering across your skin
golden glow igniting the autumn air and leaves
the woven whispers of a new TV show
as wisps of yarn curl around your crochet hook
PhD in hand, you’ll learn to slow down
and live again.
Mother Tongue
Over dinner, my mom announces, “Jiālǐ méiyǒu crayons.”1
I don’t know why this lack of crayons is news.
We excavated all Crayola and RoseArt artifacts
from the house and donated them years ago.
I wonder why my mom needs a childhood relic, but
she replies, “Bùshì crayons. Nèi ge xiǎo yuán de dōngxī.”2
Her clarification confuses me. Not crayons?
Small round things? Then what is the house missing?
“Xiǎo yuán de dōngxī, xiàng fàn!”3 she says, and I frown
down at my bowl of rice. Its contents aren’t very round.
But then I notice what’s mixed in with the rice, and
I start laughing. “That’s not crayons, that’s quinoa!”
Her laughter joins mine, and we cultivate the language
of mispronunciations that only we speak:
potato gardens noun
1: botanical gardens
watergrass noun
1: watercress
las vegas noun
1: asparagus
flag tree noun
1: fig tree
garbage noun
1: cabbage
I’ve collected these dictionary entries over the years
translating them into a multilingual love letter
spoken between an immigrant mother
and a second-generation daughter.
Translation in Chinese logographic text and English.
- 家里没有crayons (There aren’t any crayons at home) ↩︎
- 不是crayons. 那个小圆的东西 (Not crayons. Those small round things) ↩︎
- 小圆的东西, 像饭 (Little round things, like rice) ↩︎
About “Mother Tongue”
I grew up in a household where Mandarin and English infused the air, intertwining with the smells of my mom’s traditional Chinese cooking. Even as my Mandarin gradually slipped away because I never needed it outside the house and began studying French in school, I became fluent in another language: my mom’s English mispronunciations. It’s a language only the two of us are keeping alive now because the other speakers, my brother and father, have passed away. All too often, I’ve witnessed monolingual speakers engage in linguistic discrimination, so I began gathering my mom’s mispronunciations to show how accents should be seen as a source of love, struggle, and sacrifice and not as grounds for judgment.
Author Bio
Sarena Tien is a queer Chinese American writer and doctor (the PhD kind). Once upon a time, she used to be so shy that two teachers argued whether she was a “low talker” or “no talker,” but she’s since learned how to scream. Her poetry and prose have appeared in The Rumpus, Snarl, The B’K, and Sylvia. You can learn more about her writing at sarenatien.com
Contents
Book Excerpt: Further Thought by Rae Armantrout
Read the featured Excerpt Poem of the Month for January 2025, “Further Thought” from Go Figure by Rae Armantrout, along with a few words from the poet.
Read five poems by poet A.L. Nielsen, our first biweekly poet of the Winter 2025 issue, along with a few words about the poem “When We Walked”.
Chapbook Poem: The Poem as an Act of Betrayal by Benjamin S. Grossberg
Read the featured Chapbook Poem of the Month for January 2025, “The Poem as an Act of Betrayal” from As Are Right Fit by Benjamin S. Grossberg, along with a few words from the poet.
Jan. ‘25: Year One: What worked, what didn’t, and what to expect
Editor Aiden Hunt looks back at our first year and discusses changes to Philly Poetry Chapbook Review in 2025.
Three Poems by Shelli Rottschafer
Read three poems by poet Shelli Rottschafer, our second biweekly poet of the Winter 2025 issue, along with a few words about the poem “Because We Remember.”
Dancing With the Dead: On Ragnarök at the Father-Daughter Dance by Todd Dillard
“Todd Dillard successfully transgresses the unspoken cultural embargo on work that grapples with life during the COVID-19 pandemic in his new chapbook, Ragnarök at the Father-Daughter Dance.”
Read three poems by poet Wendell Hawken, our third biweekly poet of the Winter 2025 issue, along with a few words about the poem “First Hurt”.
Book Excerpt: Slow Chalk by Elaine Equi
Read the featured Excerpt Poem of the Month for February 2025, “Slow Chalk” from Out of the Blank by Elaine Equi, along with a few words from the poet.
Chapbook Poem: Caro M. by Angela Siew
Read the featured Chapbook Poem of the Month for February 2025, “Caro M.” from Coming Home by Angela Siew, along with a few words from the poet.
Read four poems by poet Natalie Marino, our fourth biweekly poet of the Winter 2025 issue.
A Conversation with Kate Colby
Poet Kate Colby discusses her latest chapbook, ThingKing, her creative writing practices, and her penchant for poetry chapbooks with PCR Editor Aiden Hunt in this interview piece.
Read three poems by poet Adele Ross, our fifth biweekly poet of the Winter 2025 issue, along with a few words about the poem “Heavy Water”.
Book Excerpt: The Self-Combed Woman by Laynie Browne
Read the featured Excerpt Poem of the Month for March 2025, “The Self-Combed Woman” from Apprentice to a Breathing Hand by Laynie Browne, along with a few words from the poet.
Chapbook Poem: To Let Go by Deirdre Garr Johns
Read the featured Chapbook Poem of the Month for March 2025, “To Let Go” from Fallen Love by Deirdre Garr Johns, along with a few words from the poet.
Read four poems by poet Sarena Tien, our sixth biweekly poet of the Winter 2025 issue, along with a few words about the poem “Mother Tongue”.