by Andrew Chi Keong Yim
Between months of silence,
my father sends me communist TikToks
from Chinese accounts. I assume they are pro
but can’t know—I don’t have the app.
What is between us remains
unwatchable. But I want to look
at him across our dimming
country, water and wheat becoming
one expanse of night. If I could drive to him,
I would begin the wrong way.
When he sends me a video of Anne Hathaway
giving a speech about her father,
all I can see is her face, unmoving,
and I’m left to imagine what she might say
the way my father in the dark is holding closely
his phone and trying to remember my voice.