five: the spring of 1912—
great-great-grandmother’s four-inch
feet are ugly crescent moons
whose arches have been snapped, whose
toes are folded into the heel.

she totters up the stairs of
her crumbling tenement and
on the rooftop, she waters
her bloodred roses with tears.

red: the color of pain

four: a February evening in 2010—

mother has not decorated for Chinese New Year since.
mother hangs crimson lanterns
above the front door, printed
with ai and fu and xiyue—
love and fortune and joy.

the neighbors have pale eyes and
piercing stares. when the fiery
sun rises, our porch is a
graveyard holding the wire

skeletons of once-beautiful
lanterns. crippled birds with bodies
of red tissue and gold beads
float into the next yard over.

red: the color of destruction

three: a Valentine’s Day party in the fifth grade—
i don a red qipao to
school, the silk of the dress
lying smooth and cold on my
skin. mama says the red will
be beautiful for this day;

red is love and joy and
happiness and ai-ya, you
are a vision in this dress
they are going to love you.

it’s Valentine’s Day but
they do not love me, and
i only wear blue jeans now.
it’s Valentine’s Day,
but instead,

red is the color of hatred

two: some boy in a high school hallway—
hey, ching-chong, can you talk Chinese to me?
i don’t know how to tell him
that speaking Chinese is like
singing a musical language

filled with melodious chords
yet bitter harmonies, a
sonata that is so
incredibly hard to master.
i don’t know how to tell him

that such beautiful music
cannot be reduced to ching-chongs
that he should not dare to
silence my symphony but

i am a poor musician,
a conductor with stage fright
and my cheeks are
flaming brilliantly

red: the color of humiliation

one: last friday’s football game—
the girl next to me is
wearing a t-shirt with
USA emblazoned in
red on the chest. and in

a sea of fans all dressed in
red, too, all i can see are
the shades of
pain and destruction and hatred and humiliation.

red: the Chinese color of tragedy.