He knows
He will kill his wife then himself. Together
They make
Two of three in his Kingdom of Daughters.
The younger love eloped with an old white man. She does not
Believe
In his Kingdom. Her hair is rich black, he says,
And women are pure by virtue as in Dreams of a Red Mansion.
                                                                              Perhaps
He always knew the same virtue leaves no place for Man in his
                                                                 Kingdom. Perhaps
She knows more she does not want to die. For a modern woman
There is no need to say goodbye. The moon is the coldest of the
                                                                                    three.

How jelly clouds formed clots that night. Blocked,
She turned first to song then morphed into thorn. She escaped
                                                                              his chop
The wife did not. She wanted to leave the Kingdom but he took
                                                                                   her
With him: all my flowers come from dreams
                    all my dreams come from water. The Eden
           He dug I hope is such. My body submerged
                    In the tub: are they mongrels in a garden now? Wandering
Drops of Jupiter fall after
Moments of rage. The glitter pour
Into all of China and the western world: sensational. But
Do they know the poplars in the Kingdom are
Different from theirs in the white land? Straight
From soil to sky beside the tombs
They grow uneasy when the old come
To see their young buried
Well in empty shells: This Chinese way of life,
Gu Cheng, only you would understand... they may never,
Which is why I bring in the nightingale,
The song, the moon.

You took the mother of your son and left
Your words to us. They took your character and gave us
Alphabets. It is unfortunate
But far more difficult to understand it
As a token of affection and that art is not
An affectation. But if your virtue stands
That little girls are pure... am I part of
Your Kingdom because I understand
The regiment of daughters is not bloodless? Down
By the poplar tree I see it as imperative,
My pen in this: for the world to know
It is not about dying an exile or the living Chinese
Murmuring aloud art’s lament. The land will echo
If the heart is hollow:
I am the mole that burrows through the
Windows you draw over the earth. In and out
My eyes are far from being
Accustomed to dark.
I shout these words to them:
We learn the habit of light too.
To you I whisper
None.