Opera troupes came to the village

An egg warm in his pocket

my father would run out early

for a good seat. To watch warriors fight.

For the handsprings, backflips.

When maidens sang, he ate,

he waved to his brother.

Upright and bespectacled, his brother

played erhu with the pros.

An honor.

The lake was made of silk; the moon, too.

Sometimes the swords spun so fast

that in his excitement the egg broke.

His mother strapped him on the legs

and hands, but the next day he did

the same thing.

When all this went away, his own father

never apologized.

Not for choosing the wrong side. Who could?

Not for the famine. Not the flight.