July in Xi'an
by Ivy Chen
My grandmother brushes her teeth
looking out the window, her city shrouded
in smog. The peacock mounted
above the mantle has been staring at a wall
for twenty years. When I was nine
I knocked over the ceramic dog standing
guard in the hallway and after, ear
chipped off, we both felt ashamed. Each time
I come home there are fewer fish in the
living-room tank but they are fatter,
greedy, swelling with unsaid words,
my father's head cradled in his hands,
slumped in an almost-prayer. I imagine
the day the glass can no longer contain
them. I've been avoiding your messages
and trying to be a better person. The couch
is covered with a drop cloth. My grandfather
is gone, left for Beijing's hospitals a week ago
with no word since. We cannot get hold of him.
My dad says he's been meaning to buy
him an iPhone, so he can track his location,
our family strewn across a map. my body
fragmented, projected onto a globe. I think
about everything until it's painful, tender
to the touch. My little brother eats only
fruit and pastry. I gorge myself on fragrant rice
and grilled meat. Today the world is gray, the
distant skyline a faint suggestion. Tomorrow
the sun will punish our indifference,
heat rising from the concrete,
straight to the bone.