Poem

Red—Line In—Ferno

May 2025

Once — my father — stepped onboard a train — and — found himself

trapped in it — the carnivorous carof red stripped — desperation — its escapades

aerobatic — as he wavered —on the outside

Some — prostitute handed him — a thick leatherbook — that was not the — Biblebut reminded him — of his sins

My mother and I

knew stir — fry's serenade — but notthe wrinkled metro card — or thelone fictive — voice — of the night

My father told me that Sāi Wēng lost his prized horse to escape the war.
In his eyes, a recognition.

Once, I came searching for my father and found the train
and its rustling men. Their voices never travel
in a straight line, their suits are always wrinkled and
sweat stained — but like my father, they are
priestly, stubborn, and so innocent when they smile.
A man stops at the door to offer me a breakfast bun, and
when I hesitate to take it, the train grows
silent. I look around, at the men watching with downturned
lips and red eyes. Like temple candles, their sadness trembles
at me, and when I finally take a bite, they are moved

i. On Red—Line—Radio, say: Don't forget to eat lunch I saw this and thought you'd like it I'm sorry I'm proud of you Should I deliver you some lunch? 好不好吃? I'm sorry Don't worry, 抬起头往前看 I'm sorry I'm sorry anyways i.

The rice cooker that you bought me sits in its box in the top cabinet of my kitchen.
If I were to use it, I'd put it under hot water and I'd scrub.

i. Once, a man handed me a damp leather book that canonized my father To meet him there To prod him with my hands, was bitterly unfamiliar, like he was of another line, another ride, or another life entirely i.

A man holds a Qingdao with one palm, and a daughter with the other.
He winks at me with his spare eye, and I whisper bastard with a hungry satisfaction.

On Red—Line—Radio, play:

Elevator music
同桌的你
Your first kiss
Young swallow
Her rocky infant steps
A martial arts novel
Your wedding song
Cold Case reruns
Her first words
Dad, Dad

Once, a prostitute saw my father's face
in mine, and begged to be served
salvation. He led me

to a rusty wok, a knife, and a book
of recipes. Salvation is the simplest one, he
claims, pointing to its spine, opening

its first page. He describes to me the taste: something
reminiscent to breakfast, or beer, or
childhood. But

the wok is too heavy, and the recipe, too simple
to understand. So I take
the knife and press my finger

against its blunt. At my beads of blood,
the prostitute sheds his infant tear, and as
its salt pearls into steam, what has been

did, becomes done.

In my father's dream, he pats my head.In my dream, I carefully wash my hair.

In my father's dream, he accompanies me home.In my dream, I am sprinting on an empty night road.

In my father's dream, he makes me breakfast.In my dream, I muster up the courage to eat it.

My father tells me to 抬起头往前看, but I can't. I won't.

Once, I found my fatheron a train and left himthere. Like a temple

candle, he trembledat me, his mouthgathering at its cusp

yet never opening.Before exiting, I decided tosit with him, just

for a stop. I touchedmy hand to his hand,and memorized

his warmth. I memorizedhis callused fingers, squareglasses, and priestly demeanor.

I memorized his closedlips, wandering eyes, andinnocent smile. I memorized him

until he was, again,a stranger. A strangerfrom my fried egg childhood;

a stranger who knows notthe blue night, the illicitconversation, or the Red—Line inferno.

I whisper bastard to reject the face of my father, but I still hold his place in this world

ii. My father tells me that Sāi Wēng lost his prized horse to escape the war. Some days I am the horse. Some days, I am the war.