Your uncle grew up next to the shipyard,
became a harbor pilot
guiding those foreign ships.
He knew six languages
from talking to those foreign devils.
And so they arrested him.
Any man who spoke six foreign languages
must be a spy,
and kept him ten years in prison.
Sick, a swelling liquid in the stomach,
something wrong with the liver,
they let him out to die.
Though merely a child,
you remember him
sitting in the bed,
not able to speak
even one language,
but giving the high sign--thumbs up,
for you,
the girl bringing the warm, moist towels
for the family to wipe their faces
after eating.

I do not know
by what right
I speak of this,
these pools
of bright pain
just beneath the surface
of every family
in China.

The children ride their bikes
back and forth through the pumpkin
smashed in the street.

Also by Roger Dunsmore The Sheets -->

Roger Dunsmore teaches at the University of Montana in Missoula. His most recent book is called Earth's Mind: Essays in Native Literature. His web page is here.
Email Roger Dunsmore at dunfall@gumballpoetry.com

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