No Great Leap Forward

Píng sits on a Tiananmen square
as she has done for twenty-two years
selling watches and little red books.

She opened up an Arts and Design
shred of a thrown away New York Times
to read about a certain McQueen

"whose matching suits and platform boots,
grotesque with swollen giant hooves,
amaze in the world of fashion."

She couldn't quite toss it in the bin,
thinking of Mother and Niece Dao Ming,
one who's dead with Lotus Feet;

the other one runs cobblestone streets,
wheeling Píng in like a pinwheel in,
clickety clack clack clickety clack,

her hut in the belly of Beijing
where tonight government rice
and a potful of back alley tea

will help her sleep and once again dream
of Father's guǐ whose gossamer wings
smother a lotus blossom.