When my brother wanders home, we know
his figure, but we cannot yet tell
whether he is a bird wing or bone, many
hollow pieces, or one fallow stem.

This man could be water
in a glass nearly empty, he could
be evaporation itself, working upwards,
perfecting the trick of removing himself.

He could be a leaf
that papers and curls when the wind
massages him, a leaf that waits and waits
for autumn to singe, then release him.

This brother could be a stalk
of corn, or the husk, each ear deaf
to the world’s whispering. And I can’t
even begin to imagine how many

fields of ears are not listening.

Tangerines pyramiding
in the marketplace, chestnuts
steaming in a vendor’s portable fire
on the corner across from the Temple
of Kuan Yin. Paper-whites
perfuming the air, whispered words
here and there gwai lo and bok gwai
(foreign devil, white ghost—syllables
as brittle as burnt toast) as I walk by.
Suspicion in the eyes of the widows
dressed in black. I feel them watching
my back, resist the urge to tease by asking
in perfect Cantonese, Neih sihk jaw fahn meih ah?
Have you eaten yet? I’ve learned well
how to greet those I pass, but I haven’t learned
to ignore their icy stares. Mutely I cry out,
I’m not like the others; I’ve come in peace to seek
the mind, the heart of compassion. Is there
no other way to find it? I inquire of the goddess
whose temple I’ve entered now. Incense
and golden glow of the Buddha behind glass.
I exit past one woman deciphering her future
in the toss of jossticks, buy seven chestnuts
and the compassion of three tangerines, one
bouquet of paper-whites to screen the accusations
and get me through a cold night.