Obon is one of the biggest holidays in Japan. Celebrated in mid-August for several days, it’s one of the most crowded and expensive travel times of the year. Similar to the Ghost Festival in China, it’s a time where deceased ancestors are believed to return home—a time to honor the dead. Many neighborhoods hold their annual Bon Odori festivals where you’ll hear the taiko drumming from blocks away, the colorful lanterns coming to life at night, the small yagura stage at the center of a crowd of yukata-clad dancers ranging from grandmas to toddlers to tourists. It’s one of my favorite times of the year.
“there are no taxis for the dead” was inspired by shouryouma, the spirit animals made from cucumbers and eggplants that dead relatives “ride” to and from home during the Obon season. Horses are made from cucumbers and cows from eggplants—the horses are the ones who rush to bring the dead home, while the cows, heftier and more leisurely (usually made with larger eggplants), are meant to give a slow passage away from home after the season is over. Most variations have toothpicks or disposable chopsticks as the legs, but some people get really creative with carving.
I always liked this idea that the dead had a way home, their own version of a taxi.
Several years ago, I read “Elegy for Bruce Lee” by W Todd Kaneko. It had one of the most devastating line breaks I’ve ever read in a poem (if you read it, I’m sure you can guess which one I’m talking about). I’d never read something that could make me cry so instantly, so I wanted to challenge myself to write one too: a single line break that could devastate. It had to surprise, but still make complete sense in the context of the poem.
But more than that, I wanted to write an elegy for my father that would let me say the things to him that I couldn’t say in real life anymore.
My father was diagnosed with Parkinson’s about six years ago and dystonia a few years before that. He went from being the person I’d always went to when I needed guidance, who’d come by himself to the US with nothing but $13 and still got a Ph.D while working two other jobs to support his family, who’d tell me fantastical stories for hours as a kid, to someone who barely spoke to anyone.
Last May, “there are no taxis for the dead” came out in Uncanny Magazine. Less than two weeks later, on my birthday, my father was diagnosed with glioblastoma. He was given less than a year to live. We’re approaching the 12-month mark, and while he’s lost the use of most of his body, unable to even really eat on his own, he’s still here. He still plays with my son when he can, still laughs at old Chinese comedy skits like he used to (when he’s not too tired), still asks for instant ramen (which he ate every day for lunch for nearly three decades, first to save money, then just out of habit). Sometimes he forgets he can’t walk anymore and will tell my mom he’ll drive her to the supermarket when she says she has a craving for steamed corn. “It’s funny, isn’t it?” my mom will tell me, laughing, trying not to cry.
I feel like I’ve been mourning my father for nearly a decade, for a person that feels like more fantasy than real person at this point. But I think of the shouryouma, those horses rushing home, and how sometimes, just for a few moments, he returns. When everything feels so normal, so mundane, that I forget how they’re actually little miracles. Like light beaming across a dark field.
For those interested in the submission process/rejectomancy, I wrote the first draft of this poem in early 2023, and it was originally titled “shouryouma~the dead don’t have taxis.” It was almost double in length and had a lot more imagery about fireflies, a visit to a pet store to see an old cat, and a conversation with the mother about how spirits know their way home.
I spent more than a year mulling over edits, never satisfied. When I finally gave up and decided to just send the poem out, I submitted exclusively to literary magazines because I didn’t think it was speculative enough (it was rejected by places like the New Orleans Review and a few others after spending 8-12 months in the queue). Uncanny was the first speculative magazine I sent it to, and it was accepted alongside my other poem “Ferry to the Island of Ghosts” which came out in December 2023.
Then at 3AM in mid-March of this year, in the middle of preparing for bed, I got a shocking email:
I am delighted to inform you that “there are no taxis for the dead” has reached the list of Finalists for the 2025 Hugo Award for Best Poem, to be presented by the 83rd World Science Fiction Convention.
As someone who has been subbing poetry/short fiction since the end of 2021, it takes a lot for an email to really surprise me anymore, but this (along with the email that came minutes later informing me I was an Astounding Award Finalist too) did. Thank you everyone who’s read/shared/voted for this poem. Thank you for letting me hold on to these feelings a bit longer.
You can check out the rest of the newsletter this originally appeared in (along with all my recent short fiction/poetry recommendations) here. Or sign-up here. Until next time!
Angela Liu 
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