Alison Wong
AUTUMN, SHANGHAI
plane leaves turn, begin
to fall—a migrant sweeps
with a sorghum broom
others plant Golden Week
flowers—purple yellow
red flags in the breeze
over smooth stone paving
a calligrapher paints, dips
his long brush
with water
zuo zuo zuo yihuir—
sit sit sit awhile
a white butterfly, a black butterfly
erhu, wooden flute
in the pavilion a man, a woman
sing Heaven’s Road
camphor trees now bereft
of cicadas—I hear
fathers plant a tree
at the birth of each daughter
watch them grow, fashion
a camphorwood chest
I have no daughter
along the wide path—mothers
fathers grandmothers chatter
over advertisements
for marriage clipped
to open umbrellas
male born 1989 Shanghai residency
something I cannot read
¥4,000/month
moral character something I have
to look up in the dictionary
female born 1983
US post-graduate studies?
own apartment something
seeking moral character
something something
a man appears, speaks
in dialect something something
but I am only reading—please
I am trying so hard to read
something something something he says
moral character something
Does he think I am here for my son?
Ni duo da? he asks—How old are you?
You laogong ma?—Have you a husband?
(Oh)
You, I say—I have
Sorry sorry sorry his first words in English
someone is taking a photograph
someone is having a photograph taken
the calligrapher is still
painting
something evaporates
like morning
