灣仔

Red neon lights in red light districts, The drowning sirens of four am, red

You know the harshness of her buzzing glow,

Red neon lights in red light districts,

The drowning sirens of four am, red

Kool aid vodka fishbowl and the shocking flash of a date forgotten

Lungs coughing up, no — strangled by, the white gloom inhaled smoke and I see — red,

In her cheeks from the sly sliver up Lolita’s leather skirt, illuminated by your

Drive, in the red taxi cab waving the red

Flag, white bauhinia fingered around in your unconscious neck, Dead or

Alive, swirling slurred slimy syllables around the sutures in your mouth, spit them bloody RED

Gweilo, yanking a man who once dug his heels

Into the dirt of a land foreign to

The whites who flush red

At the whiff of white, red, wine.

But I know the spine of her subdued hues,

The extra strokes of a losing language

Splatters thrown across a painted sign,

UNDERWEAR, it announces

A proud momentum of a backstreet in Wanchai

Her olive ferry piers, the scent of China’s presen(t/ce),

Hidden behind the waves of splintered bamboo scaffolding and

Sweat-drenched concrete cracking in straight edges

The way her ginger lights dimly flicker in the echoes of their

Cries, between the curves and bends of humming seven eleven

The soft crumbs, linger, chew, the pull of a

Mango mochi thrown on a fifty cent plastic dish

The company of a dribbled, soaked filled afternoon in

The glittering haven of Hopewell, swish,

I listen for her footsteps treading lightly behind mine

Gripping onto a broken ‘brella

All the way home