by Julie Leung

When you wrote my name

the ink dripped black

Splashing hieroglyphs

onto sanguine paper

I can not understand

what has been carefully carved

in each stroke

Your good intentions

trace the journey


left                       to                 right

left                       to                 right


Every day, I write myself further away

From the East

Where we began

When you died in the year of the Dog

Father tied a piece of white yarn on my jacket

And they buried your body with my name