It was only five.
The steam that rose
from the rice-cooker
fogged the dusk.
There she shuffled
along the kitchen
shifting and shoving
the Choi-sum
from the sieve,
until they were
carefully washed.

The tap is the
mirror where
her veins curved
the paths on her
hand, a wounded
bird could flutter
no more, but tears,
as summer rain in
Southern China,
wetted her bandage

- the ring
Twenty four was she
when he clutched
her hands, as I
now hold onto
her hands, which
gently brushed my
weariness away and
taught me how
to write poetry.

February 2016