crown
Jonathan Chan
the word ‘corona’ is latin for crown,
sometimes prickly, pressed down
until blood forms at the temple. at
times it is a yellow burnish, a skin worn
too lightly, broken by the swinging of
savage fists. the quadrangle of juvenile
rage makes a splatter on oxford street. there
is no royalty in mockery, viscous, in your hair,
nor in glass shattering between your eyes.
there is no fanfare to anxious processions,
the solemn march from vacant chinatowns.
this is no jaundice to be washed off hands and feet.
a crown is a mark, the skin presses inward,
and all masks are dirty, worn or otherwise.
On ‘crown’
This poem was written in March 2020. At the time, the reality of a novel virus seemed distant in the minds of those living in Britain, but its justifiable potential for racist violence had begun to make its way into British cities. Reports of Chinatowns emptied of patronage, and harassment and violence of those of East Asian descent, whether British or international, began to proliferate. This piece emerged from a place of ambivalence as I read of reports of these assaults from friends, striving toward the possibility of a forgiveness that inheres in my Christian faith.
This poem was first published in Zeteo Magazine.
The art accompanying this piece is courtesy of © Sherly Senja (@sherlysenja_art).