Those Days In Shanghai Poem by Joan Xie

Their desires were lit
by a cool crispy half-moon
when the river surged to the green banks
and the ground was pearl white.

It was young autumn.
Their gazes met in a climax before they
reduced into two stiff shirts.

To shame to say a word, they slyly smiled
and closed a wet kiss carefully in their palms.

Outside the window, tall sycamore trees belittled the sky.
They sat on the edge of a stammering bed, smoking,
dressed for a black-white movie set.

That night, she left him without a proper goodbye.
He also left, to forget her as fast as he could.

Many years had passed,
one day, as we are often told in a fairy tale
that they both return to Shanghai.

She stands in the shadow of a tall sycamore tree,
palm opened, no more wet kiss but a wound.
To decipher her language, he meets her gaze once more.

And once more, their desired were lit
by a cool crispy half-moon.