i.
dear waipo. i am searching
your hands
buried, incense, jasmine rice
mouse steals the oil.
still small, my fingers cannot hold
the universe like yours. jasmine rice
tumbles
onto
hollow concrete kitchen floor.
ii.
badenweiler-marsch.
waipo, the stairwell in your house is
unwinding.
gray. there are paper diamonds tatters
of ‘upside-down fortune’ on gray walls and
neverending
floors.
waipo, why is it that the lower
i walk, the whispers of our dead childhood
ricochet?
iii.
after concrete,
i remember carnation. love is pink and yellow is massacre.
peaches grow on northern soil and birds fly south.
you always flew south.
plaster crumbling, i come home in the evening and
walk stairs unweathered by your past this time.
instead of footloose guilt there is
mapo tofu sitting at your table.
it is december.
waipo. your warmth is
waning
now.
iv.
waipo, bu yao zhao liang.
i am fifteen still
incense stands in red beans. and morning leaves
cast the afternoon
into our courtyard.
v.
—hong dou sheng nan guo.
red bean is remembrance.
this autumn, it is
searching.
Cover Photo Source: East West Bookshop