My paternal grandmother came to me

in a dream and said:

I have no money and I’m cold.

I recounted the visitation to my parents—
They had forgotten to burn

for my granny paper money,

paper clothes—offerings

sent to the fire and received
by imaginary ghosts.

Except I hadn’t imagined granny’s

animated agony. It was a song she sang

when dealing Hakka cards:
I have no money and I’m cold.

I have no money and I’m old.

For years I haven’t seen these cards,

their characters now even more foreign.
I remember the strangeness

of the names the cards were called.

White strands in a water basin

when granny slowly washed her hair.
The humble dishes she cooked

in the warm windowless kitchen:

lean pork, steamed egg, rice in soy sauce.

Her lingering odour in summer.
Talking to a friend, Hakka words barked

into the receiver of a black rotary phone

with a long curly cord.

I sat there, understanding it all.
Now, I sing her song

on an odd, hot Hong Kong night.

I’m not allowed to forget:

I have no money and I’m old.