Winter Coat

Chang Liu (劉長亭)

 

Last night in my freezing kitchen I spied the mouse

Its velvet ears caught my sharp
breath before I did and it shot

along the wall          dust ball in a sudden gust of
wind —

and was under the fridge before I blinked
but just long enough to see a

new fuzziness on its minuscule body
— hair,

a lot more of it than usual and
thicker, longer, oddly
stylish.

The mouse had put on its new winter coat
and was good to go.

You wouldn’t head out in winter to dine on the town
without a decent coat. Neither would a mouse.

My kitchen, even with the heat barely on
is a city vast with promise —

with its dodgy neighborhoods rubbing up against the finer districts
its grand thoroughfares slinking into the back alleys

a single room containing all the famed sights and all
the eye sores a mouse might want.

I too have scuttled along the edge
of things          blinded by opulence          gnawing at beauty

The difference:
my mouse doesn’t finger piles of musty dated parkas
at the Salvation Army

or claw and elbow through the holiday
sales racks

or scavenge online ads
for a second-hand toss-off that fits
         something warm          something kind

No sirree! A mouse knows when it’s time to grow
its own winter coat.

         And what a coat.
         locally sourced
         biodegradable
         shade grown
         heavily discounted. And, it goes without saying,
         bespoke. With zero packaging.

Sitting alone with the lights out in my cold kitchen
I covet the mouse’s wealth.

For just one winter I would like to savor
the freedom of a mouse

self-possessed in its new winter coat
heading out on the town

content with scraps I can’t even see,
tiny god of
plenty.
 

Poet’s Statement

My poem grew out of a brief but powerful encounter. The setting: my kitchen, the dead of night, the deep freeze of winter. The protagonist: a mouse scavenging for scraps. Not exactly the stuff of sagas! Yet, this encounter with the humblest of creatures made a deep impression on me.

Not so long ago, our ancestors’ survival depended on how astutely they learned and applied nature’s lessons on those twin sisters, Frugality and Abundance. Alert to their environment, they knew how to source fruits and medicinal plants, track game, and interpret visions and dreams. Yet, in the geological blink of an eye, here we are: “modern humans,” oblivious to our former guides and teachers, who slip in and out of our lonely lives, and whom we call “pests” or “vermin.”

Yet, think of it: for the Haida of the Pacific Northwest Coast of North America, Mouse Woman — Kugaan Jaad in the Haida language — is the mother of Raven. In stories, she appears with help or advice to those undertaking a journey. What a contrast to our modern disdain for mice!

My poem contrasts material penury in a world of wasteful “abundance” with the elegant frugality of a mouse. If we want to enhance our collective non-material wealth, we must look again to nature (yes, even a lowly mouse, as in this case). For in nature, just enough is the precondition for collective abundance.

In nature, just enough is the precondition for collective abundance.

In places where animism is culturally strong, I have often come across offerings to the local spirits: rice and curry piled on a banana leaf, perhaps. Here, spirits inhabit the soil, rivers, and trees, and offering them something is a way to be forgiven for intruding — and hopefully to be accepted, and in time even blessed. In animist societies, people are in constant spiritual dialogue with the more-than-human, and offering is a key part of this dialogue.

Amazingly, the people making these offerings often are the least privileged in a material sense. Of course, food offerings are eventually eaten by wildlife. But they remind givers that they share their world with many other beings and cannot thrive without this reciprocity of resources.

Whenever I have seen this kind of biocultural abundance displayed by people of humble means, I have felt intensely moved. I see this generosity of spirit as a way for those of us living in urban environments to transcend the economics of inequality with which we struggle.

This generosity of spirit is as a way for those living in urban environments to transcend the economics of inequality.

By making an offering to the local spirits — such as an offering of peace to a mouse “stealing” crumbs in our kitchen — we rekindle our ancestral sense of kinship. Thus awakened, we may better transform our culture from one that appropriates and hoards to one that shares true collective abundance.

Is the mouse a thief? Or is it an “abundability” expert, as Nuu-Chah-Nulth Elder Joe Martin would put it? Mouse Woman has shown me how to stay warm in winter: by sharing what wealth I have with “all my relations.”

 

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Chang Liu often writes about animals and plants, his non-human Elders. Among humans, he is an English-French translator and the Blog Editor for Terralingua. His poetry most recently appeared in Langscape Magazine, Vol. 11 (2022), The Banyan Review (Fall 2020), Sky Island Journal (Spring 2018) and TOK Book 5 (Diaspora Dialogue, 2010). Read more from Chang Liu:

• One Last Offering of Oranges
• Apricot Tree