A young peasant farmer in his father’s best.
His skin, the texture
of spring bark
brushes against a starched white
collar. His face beams, and his wife
stands next to him, the expression
on her separate wind-burnt face
saying she’s lost something. The borrowed
polyester dress she wears
stretches across her shoulder blades
as she poses with the baby boy
on her hip. He is travel-weary
and crying, and in her village dialect
she shushes him, then shakes him.
Over their shoulders, Mao awaits,
his gaze meeting the lens dead on.
The passer-by with their camera
is waiting as well and the boy
won’t stop crying, just
doesn’t understand why
they’ve come all this way.
As appeared in the chapbook collection Catching Dawn’s Breath, Lyricalmiracle Press, Toronto, 2008.