He is reserved when it comes to dealing
with women. His mother died early, a joss
stick that smoked away during the rains.
He wears the master's old tunic, urine
stains his only reminder of childhood.

Often he secretly claims Lord Chou is
his father. Like pigeon wings twisted
backwards in a pocket, his wages are
arranged monthly. He hoards everything
in the same cupboard he keeps his books.

Miss Wei has a small mouth, sharp teeth
and quick hands. She is quiet as he cites
Confucius before her uncle. The golden scale
on her cheek fills his mouth with poetry.
Words from his throat make him cough.

Eventually, she instructs him on feeding.
He listens, grips his felt hat like
a drowning man. In time he will take
a wife. For now, they watch fish in the barrel
swim in circles, exchange silver.