The ground is covered red
with leaves, and I can hear
blackbirds singing. Here,
red means good luck.
 
I stand with my friend
and watch her grandfather
lighting firecrackers
at his mother’s grave.
He keeps a fire going,
to light the fuses.
 
It’s Chinese New Year.
Yesterday, the first day,
my friend’s family
visited him, their oldest
member. Today,
he brought her here
to pray to her ancestors.
 
They let me stand
with them and take
photos. All I can think
about is that Ryan Adams
song as we watch
the firecrackers burn up
and he asks for blessings.
 
Perhaps he’s remembering
how his mother kissed him
softly, or how she sang
to him when he was a baby.
 
I hear the melody
in my head. The smoke
rises in bluesy whispers
like spirits, going on forever.