East Wind
The gate is locked. A woman

exits the house, and we enter.

My grandmother takes her seat

at the table: her braceleted arms

intersect the others’ as they churn the tiles

ceaselessly, dry seas breaking over papered felt.



South Wind
She pulls a tile and runs her thumb

along its underside, across its carved

indentations. In a single swift motion,

she discards it. Her eyes search for the key.

When it finally arrives, her fingers insert the tile

into the gapped row; she calls out pung! and wins.



West Wind
The week he dies, my grandmother gives up

mahjong for a year. Her friends are bereft:

an empty space, a missing place. She lies in bed,

unsleeping, hearing his voice in every room.

Forty years of arguments, six children, nine

grandchildren—a pyre, ashes, and a stone memorial.



North Wind
I watched as my grandmother rose from the bed

and went to the bathroom without closing the door.

Lately, she has taken to stripping off and wandering

the apartment, naked. Some days, she remembers who I am.

Other days, she counts only the names of the dead. Nearly

endgame. Her final round. The clacking of the cold jade tiles—