In the year of the Snake,
on a moist Mong Kok morning,
I nosed through a black-lacquered cabinet, Grandma,
and found it full of you:

your clippings and albums
smelling of nguh eh nongs and mooncakes,
smelling of a girl who escaped habitual snuffing,
smelling of your Shanghai—

you, rubbing your temples,
blushing in the black-and-whiteness of Russian jazz bands
at a table full of latecomers from the international settlements,
somewhere between life and marriage.

You, in high heels and anti-New Life Movement hair,
purse under your arm, ceremonial rope in your hand,
guiding the Hirzai horse and jockey through a mass of sweating Chinese,
half in cheung-sams, half in fedoras and Irish tweed.

You, slender and oriental in front of the nongtang on Jaffe Road
with a pink-skinned husband and a solemn-eyed daughter.
Eyes turned towards a land of perfumed harbours,
where the Japanese will force you to go.

You, in tight white gown and elbow-high gloves,
walking down a catwalk in your yellow beauty,
in a room of tight-lipped, ex-pat servicemen’s wives,
looking at anything but you.

You, frowning at melons and ginger,
yelled away by hawkers, tripping in your steps.
Wondering where the ingredients are to knup-knup,
a dish that makes sense to no-one.

You, watching The Young and Restless in your phony opium den,
squatting on a bed of pillows, puffing your Dunhill lights,
remembering Portuguese boys,
waiting for buried friends to call you for mahjong.

And you, staring into a Yoksang handmirror,
fussing with your frizzled hair,
whitening your yellow-white face
and smiling at something behind you.

________________________________________________________________________________________ Dean A. F. Gui teaches English at the Hong Kong Polytechnic University. His poetry has been featured in Mascara Literary Review, Transnational Literature and Blackmail Press.