“Blank sheets of white paper were a symbol of defiance over the weekend as Chinese protesters braved likely prosecution to openly oppose the government’s policy of zero tolerance for COVID and public dissent.” – Newsweek, November 28, 2022

I stare blankly at the page, wanting to fill
it with meaning. In Xinjiang, 7,000-miles

away, a morning sun, reflecting off the
glasses of early risers, the windshields

of commuters, is so bright as to redact
last night’s graffiti: Down with Xi. The

people, smiling the wry smile of the
long-aggrieved, hold up blank pages

and say nothing, while everywhere censors,
police, apparatchiks, always listening, watching,

fill page after page with names, addresses, offenses:
Zhāng Wěi disrespected the Party, Lǐ Nà seeks to

sabotage the social order. In Los Angeles, I am
busy besmirching the page, smearing it with ink

as though covering the purest snow in de-icing salt.
The snow melts down to mud. Poetry reduces to

a mush of guttural sounds, incomprehensible
to the moment. Heaving a sigh, I make a double

espresso, add a splash of cream and sugar, savor
each peaceful sip. Outside, a hawk, saying nothing,

carries off a rabbit in its talons. Is this the natural
order of things? For once I hear the tearing of flesh,

see the sky turn blood-red. No one will apprehend me
here, cup in hand, crumpled paper on the floor, blank

visage belying the seeds of treason. But were they to try,
which crimes would I admit? And which would I deny?