When it rains, the fish smells
old and new
wash into the street in a swirling soup.

On the sidewalk a fire burns
and paper sheets
(the currency of grief)
are dropped to flutter and roast
from the fluttering hands of an old ghost
of a grandma.
Silent bodies stand around to stare.

Mid-Autumn has come and gone.
The mooncakes in our cupboard crumbled
and were swept away.
On Tomb-sweeping Day
the floors in Mother's house shine
Wai-po's fires burn outside
and the red ducks wise with glassy eyes
stare at me from the room
saying
Soon.