You wore your disco pants and had me meet you
at the gala where you robbed me of my money
with a story about how you lost your wallet. It
was only when I ordered your negroni that I
realized you had gone into the busy New York
night. I chased you down a cross street strung
with ceremonial lanterns for the lunar new year
where I ate crispy ginger and sticks of dried
chicken. When I made it to your place I
scanned the building: a glass wall had been
put in and you’d switched the pinned-up tee
shirts. Then you walked into the kitchen and
asked me why I followed you and what was my
agenda. Well, what was my agenda? And who
was I to you? The pigeons on your window
pecked at boxed flowers and you looked just
like a ghost when I told you it’d been three years
since I’d left you in Montreal with ample
warning. Your eyes lit up in fury, ghoul-like: all
I could do was ask you in your den if you’d say
hi to all of my dead ancestors from my living family.