Dynasty

(after Bei Dao’s Black Map)

 

Back in the room, Beijing is the new pair

of shoes close to the smell of anise in spring;

shoes father wears when he was lost

in the black continents of bedtime narratives

hoping the sheets remain fine, unworried

 

as taxi fares only his childhood can charge.

Memory barks no-yuan minutes

of the meeting, no semi-charmed heart,

no Shanghai of forgotten dream cinema.

All I want is to swirl around

 

my father’s personal winter

so I can explore the night’s fatherly

madness, its dust echoing sweetness,

and come home. In another time I know

I‘ve come home to watch the seasons

 

never understanding why several shades

of father stand still on the pavement

looking for maps and lost time. He

shuffles afterward with the shoes

I think are ready to fund him farewells.

 

Rare eddies of him left my Beijing

crumble in stochastic reminiscences—

no bestial beat pounding on the walls,

no searchlight from out the window

lo