Two Poems

Abstract

On My Way to Cantonese Class I pass under century-old banyans on Nathan Road, their scaly bark studded with ferns, trunks leaning against iron frames. I weave among shoppers ducking air-conditioner rain. M’ ho yi si – Excuse me I mutter as an old lady, with grey bun, elbows past. I am on my way to Cantonese class. After twenty years in Hong Kong Garbage has become laap sap for me. The fermenting fusion of durian, chow fan, and chicken wings smells the same in any language. Yet I long to uncover more layers of Hong Kong’s midden heap. In Cantonese class I ask too many questions. The teacher is kind, but I stall the lesson. The blond Brit next to me taps his foot in irritation. M’ ho lam gam doh – Don’t think too much the teacher writes on the whiteboard in both languages, stares directly at me. Memorize the measure words with each noun. Test next week! Sweat beads on my upper lip. Will I pass? I often get them wrong. Such hard work as my memory gapes like a sinkhole in an old district, exposing tree roots, shards of blue and white porcelain. What a time to learn that Cantonese is not a romance language. After class, I wait at the red light. A gangly young girl in a pink tutu, pink tights, matching trainers on wheels, flashing hazard lights on her heels, pushes past me to cross. M’ ho yi si – Excuse me she says. So polite! Siu sum, I call – Be careful! She pauses at the traffic island, takes my advice without glancing at my face to see who warns her. COVER FEATURE HONG KONG Two Poems by Kate Rogers Lamma Island Tofu-fa On the broken trail to Mot tat a field of white ginger lilies flags us down. We shrug off our packs. Huddled among ruins to our left, a stone house red clay roof sloping, doorway gaping like an old man sleeping. A wriggly-tin shed shades wooden tubs of tofu. We sit at a plank table. A tiny woman with a toothless smile, trembling, blue-veined hands, carries a tray. Tofu-fa is heaped like soft snow in turquoise plastic bowls. I love the tofu’s smooth surface but crave the sight of golden sugar pocking its face, tofu puddled in ginger syrup – its sharp scent, clearing my nostrils with the first spoonful. Dusk creeps under our table grey as the old woman’s dog. The old woman dozes on her low stool beside the shed, bathed in the milk of the moon. NATHAN ROAD PHOTO: SIRIWAN LEOWRATSAMEE/UNSPLASH Kate Rogers’s poem “Baba Yaga’s Child” won second place in the 2018 Big Pond Rumors Contest (Canada). Her work was shortlisted for the 2017 Montreal International Poetry Prize and is forthcoming in Algebra of Owls (UK). Her poems have appeared in the Guardian. 62 WLT SPRING 2019 ...