Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

her forehead, her heart, her feet,
her still hand.
Her fingers were cold like the lungs of caves.
III.
In robes embroidered with peonies,
she sat matriarchal
at a small table with three other women.
In this dream, I watched as the four
turned to their game of mah jong,
the tiles clacked like fate is shuffled
face down.
Starting with the East player,
rows were set like ivory teeth.
Carved dragon and phoenix latticed in a dance;
a tiger prowled on rising mountain
spotted with tufts of bamboo grove.
I wanted to run up, a little boy
crying Po-po, wo ai ni,
to reconcile years of being the grandson
who did not understand
every word when she spoke.
She looked in my direction once.
Her gaze embraced me in the language
only a grandson understands.
IV.
As the pit fire’s ghost tongues swallowed
the yellow money, paper house,
the servants who would offer sweet buns and tea,
I watched the smoke form a pillar of chalk.
106 ◆ Crab Orchard Review
Bryan Tso Jones