i. home

The West lingers in the airport
behind the multi-lingual signs –
Chinese, English, Japanese, Korean,
identity walks a fine line –
eventually devoured by
the humid Beijing air, rich
and weighing down, like the lies
we’ve been told;
everywhere, everyone.

And there’s my aunt, waiting,
checking her mobile
in between anxious gazing;
and ‘ho, there she is’,
hugs, kisses, takes over the suitcase;
cousins, smiles, more kisses;
but all warm affection drowns
in the warmer still city, motorway,
where her Toyota Crown
‘Majesta’ crawls along.

Turns up the air-con –
I put my cardigan back on;
cursing at the repressed speed,
but eventually we make it
to where apparently I belong:
Tianjin, home to two million
more souls than Sweden,
where extravagant cars and
rickety bicycles run side
by side, carrying ambitions –
accomplished, bleak, dark, bright –
one no smaller than another;
suppressed hopes, lights,
burst through fantastical
slogans of glory and prosperity.

By the river – sometimes clean,
sometimes not; sometimes full,
sometimes drained empty –
lies their oversized flat; the maid
carelessly wiping the TV,
waiting for time to fade:
moving dust from one place
to another, glaring at me with
curious, uninterested eyes.

My cousin’s windows take
over the walls of an entire corner
of her room, overlooking
the TV tower and a park with
newly-built ancient-style
Chinese houses, trees
growing in between tiles.

Every day, she and I
occupy ourselves busily wasting time,
driving the Chinese car
her father no longer wants,
swearing at the traffic and
cyclists who appear out of nowhere –
‘this is how the brakes get worn;
this is how I get worn’ –
and in boredom we share
anecdotes - known, unknown,
together, alone;
slowly knocking down the wall.