The smell of rain blurs the chaos of hawkers behind
stalls and motorcycles cutting across impatient cars.
Young boys belting c-pop and strumming guitar chords,
lean against the doors of convenience stores.
Even at midnight, 爷爷 warns me about capitalists
as he drops bills into a can for fried stinky tofu. His
breath clatters down streets, protecting red lanterns
and portraits of Mao, murmuring disapprovals for the
city he stands in.

Or this is what I imagine, as

I strike my tongue and my teeth feel blood mixing
with the beef noodle broth in my bowl, words
tripping along in a dialect I cannot
recognize. I wonder what he would think if he saw
my essay praising American troops, or if he knew
I read it to my class after lunch last month. Instead,
he pats my head— snagging a couple strands of hair
in his cracked nails, spits mucus on the sidewalk
across from cigarette embers.

My dad cried the night he died. He wanted to be across
the ocean with him, away from me. I wish 爷爷 wasn’t
dead, I wish I could hear the discordant
hums of a favorite song, I wish I could be that girl who
listened, staring into his balding head, feet dangling
as he carried her back to the hotel room.