roam through
the streets of China,
the air humid
with spirits rustling
around. They are hungry
for something only the dead
can taste. Such as wind,
such as whispers,
such as the stillness after an echo.
I am here to speak
to my great-grandmother,
but I cannot call to her
because she had no name.
Instead I hum a lullaby
under my breath,
longing for some sort
of phantom reckoning.
It is a song
I do not know,
sung in a graveyard
of the living.
The bodies are echoing
with words
I only slightly recognize:
Bù. Don’t wander
too far, the ghosts tell me.
I have tried.
Give me the answers
I do not know
the questions to.
A chrysanthemum blooms in boiling water. It does not drown.
I am begging to be haunted.