Angela Vogel

Daughter, Guangzhou

Then the tourists pushed past
Madama Butterfly, province silk,
and three bell jars of milk-tan formula

for this daughter, soon mine in Guangzhou.
It is February, it is four in the afternoon,
and our thin red threads are vying

for lovelier blooms, they who are
seamless and handkerchiefed,
an enjambment of bright fishing lure

as if we'd plumbed the Yangtze
willy nilly—and come back
with our pouches tacit and full.

How to craft an interntional flaw
into such want? Some specious scrawl
through which the spirit moves

is porting Western kisses.
The hotel, a man and his wife arguing,
variegations in the hues of birds.

But nothing like your father, legs
creased as an accordion, searching
for a phrasebook for the Chinese
word for prayer.