Yuyin: The remnants of a sound that stay in the ears of the hearer

I visit the place where my father grew up.

A tall, beige building,

ornate with red

and yellow tiles. A mosaic

of time passing from

another world I am

an intruder, usurping memories;

rapscallioning.

This is the closest

we will ever come to an embrace

I think, pressing my

forehead

to the passenger side window

(which is) sweating with cold.

My brother is balding

and I am embarrassed to

see him:

this is also a testament.

He is here out of habit; I am grasping for one.

I live on the other side of this Peninsula

but the space the separates my Brooklyn from

this Brooklyn

is thick and rippling,

like churning through an ocean

of uninterrupted butter.

It takes years for me to get here and

next time I will row faster,

I think of saying.

There is a Ginkgo tree leaning

into us

from behind the glass.

She is heavy with leaves like

canary

wings fluttering.

I cannot help but wish for larger hands

so that I might wrap them around her slender

trunk and shake them free.

I am too familiar with

the stench of

fruit, chalky pink, seeds like wrinkled

plums that rest between the

gravel and sidewalk.

Everything her turns yellow first.