A Palm, A Fountain, An Umbrella
2024
Dear Canton Girl,
How are you?
I am always asked by the locals
mastering the question as if none.
How are you, darling?
Darling,
in Cantonese,
is an intimate word kept private.
I write you a postcard.
A river of text runs across the Public Garden.
I lost the map so I used a dictionary
searching for star colours.
Colour or color?
Submarine yellow or electric white?
From island to island,
expecting some welcoming palms
like a California tee.
I saw none.
Oh, I saw one.
A green statue standing on an island.
We called it Bing Tou Garden,
literally the Head of British Soldiers’.
Will I see you again in the botanical garden?
The Royal palm travels across oceans
conquering the land with some green
and factories in between.
Flowers bloom in forever red
Plastic futures assemble in ladies’ hands
one bit at a time,
one bead at a time.
All palm trees are tall,
but some are taller than others,
growing wild on avenues.
from Queen’s to Nathan Road,
from King’s to Hennessy Road.
Palm trees and umbrellas stand still
humming the anthem in typhoons
coming from South China Sea.
The palm grows into a fountain,
always a newer wonder
fighting one another
trashing the photo albums of families and lovers.
Cannot hate it properly
but in tragic love.
I stood behind the people with a polaroid
to photograph the wishing fountain
that does not exist yet.
Here lies the rainbow for wishful thinkers.
Fountain vapour hits the sun
like a gun.
Through the viewfinder,
a frame with a cross in the middle,
I see you.
You left an umbrella.
Monsoon drew scars.
No, stars.
Midday sun shines a constellation on earth.
I shoot you a portrait
one that belongs to tomorrow.
I repaint the photograph
adding a raindrop to the ultramarine.
You own
not a label but a name.
You unguard the porcelain skin,
undo the epoxy hair.
You hold an umbrella
firm and still.
Forever yours,
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