A Polite People

First they took their land, then their fish, then their trolleys
After it was their backs, then their loins,
Then their rented apartments, their shacks, their rusting bicycles
In the end all they had was chicken gristle, chickens feet,
And dung lai chas.
Still they waited and said it wouldn’t be polite.

Then they started on their voices,
They took their tones, their gutturals, their
Argumentative low tones, their cackling old woman’s laugh,
Their hanging end-tones,
Their flippant, rising soft tones,
And then their babies’ coughs.
Still they waited and said it wouldn’t be polite.

Then they came to take their shadows,
Their memories and the ghosts of ancestors they
Had buried on their hills
Ma On Shan, Tai Mo Shan, Lion Rock
Old Animals hurting now as they looked on
Over the flagrant ripples washing their tired limbs,
Still they waited and said it wouldn’t be polite.

But when they took their dreams hung with
Luk Fuk red pockets and
Banyan leaves they wondered if their time had come
So they stretched out their legs, gritted their teeth
Counted their number and rose together
As an angry sun told them their day had run.
We waited because they said it wouldn’t be polite.

Iris Ho