with some friends and several Chinese languages dragging the exhausted suitcases we came out of the late airport into strange bleakness
we hopped into a taxi the driver Chinese I pass the hotel’s address to him we want to go to this hotel utter a well prepared tourist sentence the driver shakes his head and asks shi bu shi tang ren jie na jian? (did my accent give me away?) shi de I said he frowns and asks again hai mai zeoi kan zung joeng ce zaam gwo gaan? (Did my Putonghua give me away?) hai aa, ng goi he doesn’t say another word drives following the rows of street lamps that dim into the constant dark
the ping-an ping-guo (solar safety apple) dulls behind the windshield triangular amulet – yellow paper, red words swings under the rear view mirror – great translators flew over the ocean to a foreign continent solaced their countrymen with the mother tongue
friends sat behind spoke of lost luggage on foreign travels I and the taxi driver in front waiting awkwardly for the next word not to be said
- Chris Song - painting by Sử Nguyễn