As I watched the sea of Hong Kong millennials
fight with helmed authorities armed to maim or kill,
blue face masks worn also to cover up identities,
bottled water handy to wash off the sting of tear gas,
placards of bold Chinese characters raised high,
the dark illusions of colonialism were not lost on me.
A wistful pining, I could wear a red cheongsam
on which spring was stitched, roam the crowded city
of opaque neon signs, the looming dusk a prelude
to a long series of estrangement, a smoky restaurant
playing the saddest song on a stuttering jukebox.
A happenstance, I should walk slowly in heels
while counting vintage streetlamps, a thin cigarette
set between my fingers unlit so it would last until
I found an assassin I could lure inside his apartment,
where the window was ajar for the voyeur moon.
A fictitious expectation, I would pull his hands
still stained with blood, my standing toes glissading
on florid linoleum, his bare feet flat, the strength
of a tango master, my hair chopsticked, back arched
for unzipping, legs covered with torn fishnets.
As the TV continued to show cops with batons,
goons wielding blades, the resistance waning toward
the street corners, I turned a black bedsheet into
a Victorian dress for mourning, then opened a yellow
umbrella, no one around the living room to ask
what I was doing or hear me say waiting for the rain.