by Sam Cheuk

Unfortunate you were dubbed Gum Hau, or,
“Golden Throat.” And were the inflection
a little off, as radio announcers then
were prone to do, most audiences would have
had a chuckle at “Very Monkey.” Unfortunate too
to be a beautiful songstress in 40’s Shanghai,
to bare your countryside heart by the novelty
piano, among the nouveau riche, socialites,
scholars returned from the west, who wanted
nothing more than the sliver of your thigh,
chiaroscuro in the smoky light. To the north
the rape of Nanking. Elsewhere, the communists
hid in the mountains like snakes. Then, there
in the harbour city, in the misty romance
of the open sea, by need of a crumbling empire
you were elected their eidolon, and you broke.
Of broken heart, they say. Suicide, they say.
It is late. Even now, on the oldies station, they play
your song. The kei po you wore the night at the club
was green, silk embroidery cupped your figure
like a cut-out against the infinite black
backdrop of my forgetfulness. How lonely
the familiar perdendo of your voice.

Sam Cheuk is a Hong Kong-born Canadian poet. He has an MFA in creative writing from New York University. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Fiddlehead, QWERTY and Exile and Dim Sum. He currently lives in Toronto.