I AM HONG KONG

I have a Chinese mother.
My father was Filipino, half-British.
Me?
Who Am I?
I am all Hong Kong.
A member of the Umbrella Revolution.


I STAND HERE IN THE RAIN

I stand here in the rain
like everyone else
singing with the blood that comes
from my raging heart.
My umbrella
a weapon of freedom.


RAISING HANDS

I raise both hands.
Please, do not shoot.
Walk with me in the rain and the heat
We will hold hands, link arms
believe in love together.
We will hold fast to dreams
study and sweep
stand and sit
open our hearts and umbrellas
of peace.
Let us fall in love
and sing and laugh
tell everyone
this is what China can be.


WE BELIEVE IN LOVE

We crouch behind metal spring joints
and stretches of nylon.
Give offerings of water,
extend our hands
to those who scale the concrete divide.
We sweep the streets,
cover ourselves in yellow ribbons,
sing to the world that we believe in Love.
We
Believe
In
Love.

MAN ON THE STREET

Man on the street.

Do not touch my body
grab my breasts
scream you will rape me
push me into the barricades.
My tears are anger that only grows.

Man on the street.

Hear me raise my voice.

Man on the street.

Watch me raise my fists.

Man on the street.

You will not beat me.

Man on the street.

I stand proud.

Man on the street.

The police let you go
but do not ever think
I will do the same.


UMBRELLA KILLINGS

They are killing
the Umbrella Children
cannibals feeding
on the dreams of the brave
shooting gas
spraying pepper
bending lives
breaking bones
the streets running
with anger and blood.


WE ARE YOUR CHILDREN

We are your children.
You tell us to work hard.
Behave.
Stop ruining your business.

We are your children.
We work hard.
We behave.
Stop ruining our future.

We are your children.
Understand.
Believe.
Dream.
Come and follow us into the light.

We are your children.
Share our umbrellas.
Trust our open hands.

We are your children.
Everything you forgot.
Everything you love.
Everything you remember.


OCTOBER 14 TUESDAY

Causeway Bay, Queensway
cleared by blues and batons
the scramble of fists and hearts.
I sweat and wait
the breaking of desks
the tearing of tents
the pulling of plants from asphalt dreams.
The city rages and weeps.
Brothers pin yellow on black suits.
Sisters with manicures hand me tissues.
Strangers give me water.
My uncle did not join the taxi queue.
My mother who bought me goggles
tells me to come home.
I sit on a blanket, check my phone,
fold yellow umbrellas.


OCTOBER 22: GOOD MORNING, BEAUTIFUL CITY

Good morning, beautiful city!
In this tent
I dream and hide.
In the night
I unzip my door
to the sky.
Small plants of Faith
lead to chalk flowers
an open road.
I am Democracy brave.
I am Freedom proud.
Now I see colors.
My umbrella unfurls to the Revolution.

As my mother warned,
my cousin comes for breakfast.
Dreamers are easy to find.
She calls my name.
With her new flat, a small child,
a husband with a foreign passport,
she towers in high heels.
She hands me her business card
tells me to call her office
we all must grow up.

The beautiful city awakens
from a very long slumber.
Good morning.
Good morning.
I ask her to share breakfast.
We split
a chocolate bar
outside of my tent.
She sits on my mat
and says,
it's not as bad
as I thought it would be.
Good morning, beautiful city.