A Summer Letter

Last week, one night, a phone call woke me up.
At the other end: I was hoping you would call me, to save me some dimes.
Where are you? A cold wind rises... The boy,
squatting by the cave, wearing nothing but green, and in a blink
no longer a boy. We used to sit by two tables,
exchanging furtive glances. In the sultry nights you used to drag me
along,
running down the streets. You used to tell others: Don’t mess with this
girl.
The only person who has cooked me a meal like this. That day,
you stood in front of Wangfujing*, the last time we met. Vividly I
remember your red trenchcoat. What a cold day, you, standing on the
street.
No, I couldn’t go with you. No, I couldn’t
carry your camp bed. Hearing the chopping sounds in my ears.
You were the only one. And you said, “Really? Poor you!”
I also recall your breath, your icy fingers.
At the end of the day you talked about Lennon, about the guitar
going out of tune. You sighed, “Poor us!”
Soon it was spring. Far away, you lingered. Sometimes,
I would visit you out of blue late at night. Sometimes we would eat together.
Just a few details, which I gradually forget. Today,
they suddenly come back to me, bit by bit. Last year, in Black Water, I remembered
a dream: a freezing river tore through the steep mountains;
people, amid the rice weeds, waited for the monthly bus.
I was living there, in desolation and despair. Right, you
are living there, in desolation and despair. The mackerel sky
didn’t bring you love, and here I am, writing you a summer letter.
As the freezing river washes you away, someone keeps writingto you. Until the cold wind rises, writing letters to you.

(June 23, 2004)

* Wangfujing: a department store in downtown Chengdu.