Liu Chin with your lazy eye, thumb on a cell phone, standing in the shadow of a man.
Where did you get the green arboretum tee shirt tucked in with a long black belt cinching your slender waist? Where did you get the gold band on your finger? Your skin
is like buffed candle wax compared to mine. Arrival, Departure, you keep us on track, gathering passports, collecting airport tax, riding baggage carts around the bend.
Liu Chin with the lazy eye, thumb on a cell phone, standing in the shadow of a man.
You, smart but young with mischief in your eyes, to us you are a banker, a teacher,
a concierge, a keeper of harmony who caters to our every wish. In the distance
you skip stones over the clear river water, reflections of weeping trees juggle for postion.
Coming from the mountains thick with vegetation,
You, Chin with the lazy eye, thumb on a cell phone, standing in the shadow of a man.
Did you sing while she held you at the age of three? Were you dancing to the drums
and suona horn, the melody of flutes egging you on? Who taught you to read
the inscriptions on bones and shells? Did you go to school? Back home, sitting
in front of my window looking out onto the Bay, my most important image of China
is you. In a small room while our group ate dinner you did an impression of a baby bird accidentally falling into the river. I see those wings I see the bird, big, but young, each layered feather in various hues of gray and black, the bend in his wings, flopping.
I see the bird accidentally fall into the river near your birthplace in the mountains