My girlfriend adopts a rabbit,
and we name him Bubu Dostoevsky Luo.
Luo is my girlfriend’s last name.
Luo bu means radish in Chinese.
Dostoevsky is a writer I like.
Bubu never writes in the first month,
although his modest nose twitching
implies a burning interest in language.
My girlfriend and I speak Chinese at home
but feel obliged to rethink this practice
like every immigrant household:
She points out that Bubu
is an American bunny,
and he needs to fit into society.
Poor Bubu. Will he grow up ignorant of the story
behind the Mooncake Festival,
meaning of his own name,
locations of Beijing and Shanghai—
which one is farther north?
And Guangzhou, Wuhan, Chengdu
where people cook (Bubu should be aware!)
spicy marinated rabbit heads.
Do we take Bubu to church on Sunday?
Wedding ceremony sans fresh longans,
grave adorned with a cute wood cross?
Other bunnies carrying Easter egg baskets
may ask Bubu to talk about his family.
What will they call Bubu in his absence?
How does Bubu see himself?
In the long 21st century, Bubu may meet
some communist bunny from China.
Will Bubu return her accented greeting
with a perplexed smile,
or will they sniff and pass each other—
a fluffy moon at its perigee?
Yes, Bubu is born so American
he can easily run for president.
Thank God he hasn’t expressed a zeal
for proposing tax reforms
or deporting Russian spies.
Bubu munches orchard hay.
From behind I see a fierce typist at work.
The paper balls he throws away
hang in the sky as crumpled clouds.
Or is Bubu an underground radio operator,
who keeps sending the Morse code of wonder
(now his antennae ears are up)
to somewhere far, far away?
No matter which language Bubu the bunny
adopts to write his early oeuvre,
we will always love him, support him, and make sure
he doesn’t travel alone to Chengdu.
Source: Poetry (June 2022)
