Fire went out the
night before. From the alcove,
Papers are gathered,
cakes of coal are added.
Smoke invades the
bricks, its acrid bud
Embraces the fat
black hips of the stove.
A scream pierces the
haze and slices the day
In half. It’s the Fu lao bar1
on the east, sole
Survivors from
recent purges of wealth. Too old
For children. The Revolution has dappled them gray.
With powdered
fingers, Grandpa steps on ice
And opens the door
to the Fu house—opaque papers
For windows, rusty
washbasin, wiry vapors
From a chamber
pot. “Help him,” the woman cries.
He checks the old
man’s pulse. It trembles like a worm
Ascending a branch.
It stops.
He tells her to mourn.
1Lao
bar is an affectionate term by which old couples call
each other, literally meaning “old half.”