Of you, my Kung Fu Master

Glasses off,
you would look as you were:
A farmer’s grown son
A strong child of China.

You would say ‘Your eyes, they must look like this’
But mine are not so dark, you know.

You rode a girl’s upright bike.
I would for you rise at 6
And you would be angled against the bath-house wall
Pulling your tight morning calf-muscles
Waiting coldly for my coming.

You always wore the same sweater that winter.
We would slip on the icy tiles, and eat hot pork baps before class.

Spring, you asked me why I was so happy
And it was because I had dreamed that we ran,
Flying, really, the dust of comets on our heels.
Somewhere beside me, you asked if I was ok,
And I laughingly swelled in delight at my legs,
And at you, my fearless leader,
At the sunlight slanting, sparkling, on us.
In life, you never spoke to me that way.

Summer, I would practice in the cool nights
Alone on the badminton court, but for the bats.
Eyes closed, I would occupy you,
Hear the rustle of your coat
Finding your movements in the arcs of my hands.

Rehearsing your coldness
I would miss you less.