Little Crooked House

Twelve years changed 

by the bustle and rustle of a booming metropolis 

cannot remove the threads of my origins -

that little crooked house 

in a remote town in Henan Province

in the very center of China.

Staring vacantly at the mildew ceiling

his beard catching the saliva dripping,

the Sahara is the floor beneath his feet.

He, alone, resides in peace.

On the upper floor

stored my grandpa’s study

from which 

the rustling sounds of flipping pages

and the rustic scent of antique books

kissed my nose.

This floor was an oasis - 

rosewood labeled Simone de Beauvoir,

cedar named Ernest Hemingway, and a

walnut tree named Italo Calvino…

Of course when I get absorbed in reading,

touching and admiring 

the annual rings of these gigantic trees,

I hear my uncle yelling

because of nothing.

It is a constant reminder that though 

I lived in the tree canopy

like Cosimo,

I’d have to get downstairs

to fix our fragmented reality.

Cosimo eventually agreed to drink the snail soup

Upside is the Garden of Eden.

Downside is The Great Sahara.

Eden eventually turns to Sahara,

signaling our return to chaos

This is a bit of my childhood,

more of my livelihood,

my struggles and changes.

Indeed, my future and my chances

originated from this crooked house 

that still stands, though we’ve left it

to cradle the echoes of my family.