i.

there is an old rain tree

in tianjin city,

behind the dusty old building

with the gray stairwell

scratched clean by knees and elbows

and bicycle handles scraping by

 

you can see it

from classroom 3E

through the blackened windows,

through the chalk dust in the air

swirled around

by the wobbling ceiling fans

 

you can see it

from the basket of a bicycle

little hands grasping tight

around your mother’s frock

as she pushes through the bustling crowd

on her way from work

 

you can see it,

under the tired sky,

framed by sprawling factories

and the smear of smoke

bellowing into the air

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ii.

there is an old rain tree

that your father points out

“it’s been there,

since I was your age,”

hand in yours,

whenever you walk past

on the days when he is not

across oceans.

 

it hides you from the sun,

on sweltering summers,

when the flies circle you

and your watermelon rinds

like vultures

over a dead body,

 

it hides you from the rain,

in the monsoon July,

when cold needles soak you through

pinafore stained, waiting

for your uncle to come by

with that umbrella

you swore you wouldn’t need

 

it hides you from the snow,

and hail,

that turn to gray and grime

before they even hit

the dusty winding roads

 

it hides you from the nights,

when your brother is home

again,

when there are cigarette butts

and men in your room,

spilling cards across your bed,

gambling with the dimes

they broke out of your piggy bank

 

alcohol in your nose

and smoke in your lungs

and shattered glass

where you used to sleep.

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iii.

there is an old rain tree

that you grew up with,

in a place where you were not

happy,

 

and when it is time to leave

for the land of freedom,

you say goodbye to it,

before

you say goodbye to

the windows that are caked with filth

and the little wooden doorway

that always smells of cabbages

and the couch with the holes

 

and gray-smeared trucks

honking right under your window

the scratched blue desks

and white plastic chairs

the chalkboard that makes you cough

every time you’re on classroom duty

 

and the people

who weren’t as lucky;

to the people you left behind.

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iv.

there was an old rain tree

that i went to see,

ten years older,

taller,

ten years stronger

than i was

before

 

with someone

who gave me courage

and held my hand in hers

as we stumbled over the rubble

that used to be

the dusty old stairwell

and classroom 3E

 

and we watched the sun set

over the dusty, tired city

over the stump where

the old rain tree used to be.