In Concord, I Wake Before My Dreams

I sweat in sleep—Shenzhen’s swelter
              I carry with me, the city a swamp of rootless strangers
mangled in mangrove, melting pot wherein nothing melts
              save for bodies in relentless heat, the way my skin seethes
at the wet air. I am always prying my stickied limbs apart.
              Swaying in front of the dorm microwave, I burn
the qingtuan—I forgot my mother swaddled it in foil, its terrible
              warm belch bursting into charred light. Frantic, I yank
the handle. The metal shudders: no sirens, only the possibility.
              I gather what was once glutinous and unyielding,
watch it crumble. December descends and I am on my knees again. I want
              wild waters. To never look back, pocket full of one-way tickets.
In the glass room above the birch tree, we talk about
              ghosts and what we owe to those we love.
How to leave behind, despite.
              Despite Jiujiang’s nine rivers, despite stabbing
the silt, the stones muddied with mugwort. We collect
              star jelly after a scuttling storm, my cousins and I
buoyed in a deluge of rubbery petals. Years ago, my father
              walked me to the school bus stop each day, his fingers cradling my fist.
Polka dot backpack slung on his shoulder. Inside, a stray pencil sharpener
              blade buried in a nest of bruised plums
I had long forgotten. Here, an origin story
              whittled down to a point. The days fall out of our grasp
like cicada shells drooping from gingko gone gauzy
              with time. As shadows spear the pocked lines of your face
I let go of your hand. Little pause,
              now. We shed our skin, every old skin,
one by one, and stumble
              into the pale morning.