Houhai by Jennifer Wong

If you ask me about water, this is the water I think about. The glow of myriad colours on the lake at night. Rickshaw drivers practising their English consonants and vowels with tourists as they pedal past the hutongs, earning five yuan each time—not even a pound.

When Kublai Khan first arrived in Beijing, they called this lake hai—sea—for they have lived all their lives in the desert, and would not have seen much of a sea.

A mesmerising stretch of water from Di An Men all the way to Xin Jiekou and Pingan Dajie. And the palace, so far away.

From there you can see Prince Chun Mansion where the father of Emperor Puyi was born.

Its season of lotus flowers and pristine snow.

The smell of Xinjiang style lamb skewers and pork belly, cooked halal tripe, fried sausages, the bicycle bells, the songs from the bars.

And the workers: their tanned faces and broad shoulders. Students who frequent here after their classes. Couples who fall in love.

Those who come here out of a nameless sorrow, who cannot speak, and long to be healed by the sea.

And the photo we took at Silver Ingot Bridge.

What has become of this country?

The dust, even the dust, seems affectionate.

And if someone were to whisper to me, Shíchàhǎi, I can feel the restless breeze of history rippling again in the air.  

Watch Jennifer Wong read her poem 'Houhai' on our YouTube channel.

Photo by zhang kaiyv on Unsplash