In Memoriam:  King’s Theater, Circa 1950-1990

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

I remember
I sat on the first row. 
On my left sprawled
a boy I did not know. 
But I knew that like me
he was in the darkness seeking
a trace of his blood
on the flickering wall swarming
with illusions:  the Monkey King
twitching, slinking off on a cloud,
away from freaks in frail skirts.
These seats were the artery
to the old seacoast
where the yellow skin dwelled
and buried their dead. 
Our fathers feared
our skins were turning brown.
On my right sat Ah Ma, she
who had secretly peeked
from her window at the stranger
who was to be her groom,
days before the wedding
long ago in tangshan.
During recess, she and I lingered
for the candied crabapples,
like bloated red pearls on sticks
parading down the aisle; 
their taste sweet and sour
like memories. 

I remember also the last time
I was there:  I was nineteen;
the wood under me creaked
in agony as I stretched out. 
My brother groaned, longing
for the foam-padded luxury. 
A few rows in front, a thin-haired
figure in white sat alone
while another of the same relic
hunched at far right. 
We were four matches left
in a grease-smeared box
nearly flattened, heads raised
to squint at the mirage
of fists, kicks, and blood
as in a Jacky Chan. 

Now the seats are all gone.
The building houses
a karaoke bar, blaring out
love songs in Cantonese;
and little shops selling
trends and threads,
made in Hong Kong. 

As I stand watching,
shadowy frames of history
flutter down,
vanishing
before touching ground. 
A yellow chrysanthemum
rests.

Filed under : EDITION  -

ARCHIVES of September , 2005