XUÂN
Swan. Juan. Zoon/Zan/Zun. June. Shoo-in. Exxon. These are all the ways her name is not pronounced.
•
“Ah,” says the teacher, with a philanthropic nod, “small world! I once met a man who lost his right foot in jungle combat. And I have a cousin named Sue Ann.”
•
Once upon a time, she imagined a best friend named Xavier. They would start a club, taking advantage of all the coolness of X (X-Men, X-ray vision, X marks the spot). They would become great alphabetic snobs. They would build a treehouse with a massive X for a door. There would be a top-secret password containing several Xs. There would be a motto with words like “X-clusive” and “X-travagant.” No one else would even dream of joining without proof of a cross-your-heart, birth-certificated X.
•
Once upon a time, her name had belonged to a poet. Barefoot, brilliant, a river of jet-black hair. Dared any scholar in the empire to match her, line for line. Foolish men tried and failed. Professors hid their flushed faces. Mandarins scurried off, silken robes askew. Dozens of wishful boys crowded her doorstep, stammering and blushing and buckling at the knees. She doused them with ice water and sent them home. Wrote five perfect verses for each meek word they attempted. Left an X of wet ink glistening at the bottom of every scroll.
•
Soon, Shane, Sun. X-You-In.
•
X is a buzz. A shock. A shrill stain of dissonance. But also X is a hush. A private breath, a slow melt. The rustle of new leaves. The long bright arc of moon. The silvering start.
from Breaking the Map (Blue Begonia Press, 2009)
