For people who lived through China, 1949

A dark child hangs loosely on the crescent, flaxen moon—

His skin blotches an acidic wetness clothed in a shade of fresh cerise—
His heart is motionless; his eyes are stunned—

Shattered are the images he gathers from the children—
On the playground—over sand dunes and deserted cherry lollipops—
He sees a black kite—

With a translucent string below—he follows the clue down to a fisherman—
Who carries some torn nets on his right shoulder every night—
Rows himself away from his home, from this place full of popsicle cheeks—
Full of people made of frost—

The kite gradually flies away—the child stares at the ascending string—
Dimming with the breeze that mirrors the Heaven of souls—
Every stroke is ill-lit, and tells only a fragment of time wasted—
Men and women in Heaven speak words that don’t register with any ear—
And there is no immediacy—they don’t know where they belong—