BY Zhihui Zou

For the City of Shanghai, the city that raised me.

The city used to be a village, a small, coastal village called Hu.

Fathers returned from the sea with boats carrying catfish and crabs,

Their oars gently patting the water.

Mothers hung the fish and crabs below the sun to dry,

Water dripping down from the ropes splashed like glass beads against the ground.

Children ran down the beach and created trails of footsteps on the sand,

Their laughter echoed with the chirping of the seagulls.

What echo now, however, are the foghorns of cargo ships

And the shrieking of jet engines when landing at the airport

Built above the ports where the fathers had docked their boats

And mothers hang dry the fish.

When I watch the faces of the people still living near the sea,

I see the interlocking creases on their faces form into words,

Words that I cannot interpret.

My mother says they are the people who used to live in the old village,

People who still guard the boats of their ancestors.

I do not see them speak often. In my mind, guardians of history

Should spread their past so the treasure will not enter the graves with their protectors.

I watch the creased faces. Their hands are also creased,

Skins wrapping tight around their bones like tape.

I watch and wait, wait for their lips to move.

I wait with the rumbling of foghorns and jet engines as my company.

When their lips finally part,

I hear no sound.

Zhihui Zou lives in Southern California. His work has appeared in San Antonio Review, Short Fiction Break, Heavy Feather Review, and elsewhere. He is also a fiction reader at Carve Magazine and an editor at Revolutionary Press. During weekends, he likes to play tennis with his friends.