Sketch of Tianhe District, Guangzhou

Air conditioning units emulate the sound of rushing waves,

a crest of cool air breaks against my leg hairs.

I see a conspicuous glob of melting ice on grass

that’s parched and wanting for shadows.

.

I thought I heard seagulls, but turning around

I saw only a serious looking woman with a megaphone

beckoning the ambling elderlies to come forth

and get their throats swabbed.

.

Underneath an unnatural horizon of palm trees,

a child laying on concrete hits a shuttlecock towards

nothing in particular; it burns a trail through

the climbing summer ether.

.

Guangzhou on a Monday seems easy,

all of its past giving way to intricate city planning -

railway malls and mega sports centers,

streets wide and winding with neat slab squares.

.

These are the streets in which Huang Chao romped,

tearing off the heads of Persian merchants

and leaving the Pearl River bubbling scarlet

with pirate ships rocking uneasily atop of it.

.

Where my own ancestors took large handfuls

of the southern coast’s arteries

before clogging them full of a poison

that inflicted a century of irreparable trauma.

.

Yet Guangzhou on a Monday is easy, if stifled,

and its history begs to be reforged

into something a little more sterile

and engorged with artisan coffee.

.

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