When I die, snow will descend 48 hours,
nightingales will sing a hymn,
a tear will curve down your cheek,
and a monarch will reincarnate.
Blink twice. It is the year 2077.
The snow has transformed into a confetti of ash.
Magnified closer, it is a swarm of butterflies.
Among them, my shadow—velvet black and overcast,
flits in & out of gardens, basks in twilight and nectar.
On the bed of a lotus, I dream of my mother’s
voice in my ear, reminding me to look up
at the constellations when the night is too opaque.
She encourages, Go live your life. Do not be afraid.
Off I flutter, boldly crossing borders towards China,
sweeping into the city of Beijing,
dodging motorbikes and fruit stands
piled with longans and melons, hungry.
I am counting the disappearance of sunsets
day after day in November.
On the 10th, I learn a myriad of ways to be carefree
as children hopscotch, jump rope in the park.
On the 15th, I witness love & grief—
a couple embracing under a banana tree,
a woman sobbing alone at the riverbank.
On the 20th, I sense time speeding away on a one-way street.
I am missing my childhood, and you, my friend.
In front of our old siheyuan, I hover at the window.
You’re on a rocker listening to the radio.
80 now, your hair is white, and you’re still wearing my ring.
You look up and notice me—time stops & suspends.
Snowing again. My wings quiver.
You unlatch the window, invite me in.
I perch on the sill, remembering youth,
how much I cared for you and still do.
All night I watch you sleep.
Somewhere in the hills, the tender melody
of a harp floods your dreams.
In the morning, I close my eyes, die again.
