Published in In Parentheses
it’s a rainy day in Chinatown
and i’m staring at a gutter.
i hear my blood, thick and rich,
as much as i hear the raindrops,
the cantonese, the mandarin
lanterns pushing their lily
bulb bodies against the wet
windows. inside, i see a man,
his white beard scattered
like frayed knots on some ocean
dock. he paints crescents into the raw
meat, car headlights flashing
lightning onto his cleaver. i watch
him only for a second and he pays
neither myself nor the streets
any mind, unlike the gutter
which is roaring some song
at me that i can’t understand.
so i pay it no mind, and watch
my soggy shoelaces streak
across the dry parts of the pavement.
i try to move my shoes in crescents,
pretend I’m doing ballet or street dance—
they’re more like gashes in a cutting board.
i kick drips off the aglets and i look up.
i see the sun seeping through
the clouds like a creeping mold.
Jaden Fong 