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riding a camel, sitting on a red and gold

blanket between its humps, riding on a cold

windy clear day atop the Great Wall.

Behind me and before me, the Great Wall

rises and falls, rises and falls with the domes

and kettles of the Qilian mountain range,

crenellated spine of Dragon. Guard towers

at interval peaks. With mittened hands,

I am tufting and petting the tawny liony fur

on the hump in front of me. The camel’s hair

and my hair are blowing in the Gobi wind.

My hair—salt-and-pepper hair, not

long ago—blows across my face

and into my eyes. I should’ve said to myself

out loud, “I am astride a camel;

we’re traveling the Long Wall. We’ll take the Long Wall,

then the Silk Road, and arrive in the West.”

As Empress of the Center, I see from on high:

all/no space and time, human

populations and individuals forever

on the move, migrating like bears and whales

and cranes, walking, riding, flying along

and across rivers and oceans, islands and continents.

“You twain! and all processions moving

along the streets! I wish to infuse myself among you

till I see it common for you to walk hand in hand.”

I rented a bicycle, left my passport

as collateral, and joined a river of bicyclists.

Entering, merging, I pedaled, glided apace

in the steady, balanced surge of fellow cyclers.

Bells burr burr-ring burr-ring.

I wheeled along with families of 4, 5,

couples, babies with net over their faces,

high-heeled ladies, pets (an illegal puppy

peeked out of a box), poultry, furniture,

produce. All streaming along, streaming

on and on, rolling through intersections,

through markets, past pancake and corn-

on-the-cob venders, street barbers, podiatrists,

bicycle repairers, through the clink clink

clink of women breaking up rocks,

past the stadium, site of mass executions,

swooping left turns in front of honking

trucks, taxis, oncoming rivers

of other bicycles. Pulling, drafting, we flow.

We are blood. No moving over

to a curb, no getting off. Give in

to being lost; ride to unknown parts,

until the cycling mass lets me go.

Once I was on an airplane beside

a village girl in the window seat. At takeoff

I asked her, “Where are you going?”

“Waw!” She shouted in surprise, and grabbed

ahold of my hand, “You speak like me!”

“Yes, I speak Say Yup language.”

“Are you from the village?” “No, my MaMa

and BaBa came from Say Yup villages.

They left for New York. They lived in New York,

then California. I was born in California.”

I feel like a child, younger than this girl; I’m

telling about parents as if I still had them;

I’m talking in my baby language. “Waw!”

she exclaimed, loud as though yelling across fields.

“I am going to New York! I

am meeting my husband in New York. He’s

waiting for me in New York. He works

in a restaurant. He’s rented a home. He sent

for me, and waits for me.” She did not

let go of my hand; I held hers tightly

as we flew the night sky. She looked

in wonder at webs of lights below.

“Red red green green,” she said.

“Red red green green,” my mother

used to say, meaning, Oh, how pretty!

The lights were white and yellow too, and gold,

blue, copper. And above, stars and stars.

Mother, MaMa, as you leave

the village family you’ll never see again—

Grandfather walked her as far as he

could walk, stood weeping in the road until

she could not see him anymore when

she turned around to look. She’s off to that lonely

country from where he returned broke—“I felt

that I was dying.”—MaMa, girl,

you are not traveling alone. I am

traveling with you, here, holding your hand.

I know that country you’re leaving for,

and shall guide you there. I know your future.

I’m your child from the future. Your husband

will certainly meet you. BaBa will

be at the East Broadway station.

You will recognize each other,

though he be dressed modern Western style.

You will have a good, good life.

You will have many children, and live a long,

long life. You will be lucky.

“You are lucky. Your husband has work.

He’s rented an apartment, and made you a home.

He saves money. He