Doctor

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.”