zhong-qiu (mid-autumn)

the eighth month. twilight. in front of me,

your face is kissed orange. you are

cracking a sugar cane in half and

i am watching.

thirteen years ago here in our sorghum

fields the zhong-qiu festival came and went in

unshuttered brightness. mosquito incense coiled in

its burner, red-paper lanterns asway, pyramids of

egg yolk pastries from the city wheeled in on our father’s

ramshackle cart. us. the full moon rose behind us

and dangled just above the distant treeline like

the hot air balloons on western television.

thirteen years ago we lived a crepuscular dream.

today. the eighth month, twilight.

you get drunk off of lemon salt soda on

the rocks, sit on your chipped stool, and

tell me about the smoke in Beijing. yes, it

smelled like cigarettes and sesame noodles and

stinky tofu all at once; yes, a layer of grittiness, sticky

like lactoderm. if you visit one day, you say, you could

reach out and peel it off the sky in smudged gray strips.

there are no lanterns this year. no incense, no

pastries, no ramshackle cart rattling its way

down our valley. only the gold-tipped waves of

sorghum breathing with the wind. only us.

later, we’ll go up to our shared bedroom and

sit in the eclipsing shadows until the clouds

outside turn from persimmon to stormy

gray-violet. we’ll talk, or maybe we won’t, and

when the moonlight begins splintering through

our chafed window panes, let us lie in bed with your

left arm hanging from the top bunk as always before,

and i’ll reach up and recreate michelangelo’s

creation of adam. and then, when i hear you

fall asleep, i’ll close my eyes too and pretend

we are still living the zhong-qiu of thirteen years ago.