Sai Kung, Hong Kong (Outskirts) 

The wind slides through the torn mosquito screen. 
The hallway smells like rust, yesterday’s rain. 
The door creaks as we step in. A photograph of us  
leans, unseen— its frame unhooked, the glass panels  
stained with limescale from the ocean’s sprays. 
The hallway still smells of rust and rain. 
Yesterday, we came back just to say goodbye. 
We wipe dust and time from each unhooked frame. 
You looked away, so I didn’t cry. 
Today, we just came back to say goodbye. 
I trace the wall, hoping it might remember us. 
I look away, so you don’t cry. 
Our childhood still flickers, faint and blue. 
I trace the wall, as if it might remember 
The photograph we step into, still unseen– 
Ma’s faded sundress, Ba’s ceramic cup holding  
his floating tea leaves. Faint, blue. 
We let it all slide through the torn screen.