AUBADE ACROSS TWO WORLDS

In China, all you could think about was
your first English-speaking child
or perhaps the last time you would see your mom.

In America, all you could think about was
your first Chinese-speaking husband, now-ex
or perhaps the last time you would believe in love.

Who am I to you, darling?
But the answer never comes. The answer
is our laying, the shape of a question mark.

In your arms, all I can think about is
the quiet in your mouth
tasting like chrysanthemum and wet

salt in motion. My hand searches your cheek
as if about to touch a lip’s worth
of light.

Silence 
giving way to more silence.
You’re lost in the dark.

CODA

The therapist says I am growing
around my grief.

Soon we can switch to bi-weekly
from weekly. What’s next? A new hand
to hold? All this love with somewhere
to go? A second home?

My shrinking shadow and I
skipped around the block
to celebrate.

We took in the living
canvases painted by time,
chrysanthemum yellow and fortune
red percussing the Fall concrete
with rhythm medicinal.

So much felt lost: food—
our love language, which was
meant to be shared. Inside
jokes for an audience, now
of one. 

I’m grateful for small wins.

The way the mind still trusts
the show can go on.

The way the body still tunes
desire into a solid pitch.

And the heart, watching
its ensemble of impulse and improv,
begins to see them for what they are:

fluttering fingers, swells of song,
and leaps of laughter,
becoming music.