Like Dali, I melt clocks in my spare time, flirt with the absurd: our palms etched
with memory, lungs open like wings. Once, Grandfather taught me 
a Chinese proverb: outside of sky there is sky, outside of people 

there are people. Outside of this world, there is another one. 
My days are measured in bouquets of jasmine, empty matcha tins, 
pu-erh strewn carelessly on living room sofas. After my rabbit died 

in first grade, Grandfather and I played checkers. A hop to the side 
and over the angry Monkey King is the first tone, mā for mother. 
Then, the leap up, a distraction for the crafty raven, is the second tone: 

qiú for beg. Third, the daring retreat, an obstacle to surmount: lǎo 
for old. Lastly, the proud fourth tone: zài, meaning here, perhaps even 
meaning home. In our home we brewed ginseng tea to battle unnamed 

diseases. We held hands with health. I was never good at it, of course: 
always too bitter, oversteeped. Always the universe mocking me 
from the sidelines. My entire life I have been cheating fate and language

and love and loss and so maybe it was my fault, then, for not listening
to the breathless exhale of the blood pressure machine, for not folding 
the laundry whenever he wrenched over, spine furling like the underside

of our fine porcelain cups, for not saying zhù nǐ shēntǐ jiànkāng in 
the right tones, for watching the clock hands tick and tick and tick. Now 
I am running out of time, waiting in the emptiness of this parchment-white 

room. The trajectory of ordinary light leads me to an airport terminal or 
his bedside or the end of the world. I am here, wǒ zài. Grandfather, 
stay, stay, stay, despite this crookedness.