On Chinese New Years, you stand

in your grandma’s old retirement home

looking down at the red envelope

that tightly clasps what she had refused

to spend on food and medical exams.

It gently floats across her open palms

like a lonely cardinal stranded in the ocean

waiting to be swallowed whole

any second by the belligerent ripples

of her calloused yellow skin.

Her expectant eyes touch yours

as she slides the crimson fowl

onto your soft, privileged fingertips.

Trembling, you pinch its winged flaps

shut, pinning it, preventing escape.

You glance ahead at the flattened

contours of her shriveled cheeks

unsure if she had been malnourished

for the sake of this frail creature.

She has tattooed “for college”

across its breast, oblivious to the fact

that meager sums will not suffice,

although her million-dollar smile

and glimmering pupils reflect

the phoenix spreading its wings

in your golden hands.