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of the village to muddy paths that went past

a dump pile. Elder Brother apologized,

“So dirty.” I said, “It’s okay.”

I compost. What shocked me was the bits

of plastic trash mixed in with the leaves,

peelings, manure, and earth. Reds and blues

that do not occur in nature. Not a flower

in sight. My family are practical farmers;

they don’t plant ornamentals. We entered

a huge old structure of stone and brick.

Foliage, small trees, grew inside,

up toward the broken roof and blue sky.

There, tethered to a column—long rope

from ionic base to nose ring—was

the water buffalo, grown, immense, dark.

Great curved, ridged, backward swooping,

sharp-pointed horns. “Lai, la.

Lai, la.” With one hand, Elder

Brother gestured come, come closer;

his other hand had ahold of the nose ring

controlling the water buffalo’s head. A swing

of its head, a stomp of a hoof, we’re goners. It

was uneasy; it didn’t like being pulled

into a commotion of visitors. And cameras flashing,

taking pictures of the city cousin and cousin-in-

law bumbling into country life.

Pet-pat it—where? on the nose?

the face? the shoulder? What if it swung about

to look at what touched it? I tried

sending it friendly thoughts. Remember me?

I remember you. You were a baby

with big long soft ears that stuck

out, like your horns stick out now.

I love your deep bright eyes, and eyelashes.

So, this is the animal that doorgunners chased

from helicopter gunships, and shot

to pieces. “His balls explode, and I watch

that two thousand pound creature jump

ten feet off the ground.… Everybody

laughs.”—John Mulligan, Viet Nam veteran.

It had happened just south of here, not long ago.

I’m sorry, Buffalo. I am sorry.

I asked, “What is this place?”

The columns. The dais. The faded red words

on the still-standing walls and on the column

that staked the buffalo. I make out

the word moon. The word live. The word

teacher. I know too little Chinese.

“This place was the old temple. The typhoon

wrecked it.” His free hand—he wore a watch,

a silver watch—pointed to the broken walls,

and roof that let in swaths of sky. “Home

for my buffalo now.” So, is this what’s become

of the Hong temple? Are those the steps where

the guys hung out and teased the girls, and made

my mother drop her water jar, which broke,

and she got a scolding? Is this the same temple

I’d seen them restoring after Cultural

Revolution? The one we sent money for

changing back from a barn? The Communists banned

religion; temple became barn. The typhoon

had wrecked the old temple. Or were

Red Guards the Typhoons? I had gleefully

sent money; I would make my own cultural

revolution—get the names of women,

women donors, up on the temple walls,

and change the patrilineage. Time-faded,

whitewashed, red writing on the column

and walls could still be deciphered:

Great Teacher

Great Leader

Great Commander-in-Chief

Great Helmsman

Long Live Chairman Mao

Conservation of Electricity

Production Safety

I was hoping for something from the Tao

and Confucius. Maybe, beneath layers of paint:

Farmers

farm

all the way to

heaven.

“See the trees?” said Elder Brother, extending

his arms toward the surounding grove, branches

sticking through the roof, branches through

the walls. “I planted each tree. With extra

money, I buy a small tree. I’m growing

forest. I’m a planter of forests.” He must

have been planting all his life; those are

grandmother-size trees looking in on us.

“Do you own this land, these fields?”

“The government took land and fields.” “No,”

said another relative, so quietly, only

I heard, “the government gave land back.”

Every story you hear, you will hear its opposite.

“Did you know our grandmother?

Do you remember Ah Po?”

“Ho chau!” Very mean, a scold.

He told: “I cared for Ah Po the last

5 years of her life. She lay in bed,

shouting for me, and I helped her.” He must’ve

been a kid too young for the fields.

I remember the photograph of Ah Po

lying on her side in her cupboard. Her hair

combed back tight, she was dressed in black,

and