My ancestors followed me here, and those fuckers won’t leave me alone

My ancestors followed me here and those fuckers won’t leave me alone.

Ko Pok as a boy, a tray of assorted goods scavenged from leftover G.I. supplies after the war hanging from his neck. Cigarettes, socks, candy to sell on the street. Ko Pok as a young man, white pants, sharp shoes, slicked back hair. A gun tucked into the waist of his pants, barely visible from the opening of his tailored tan jacket.

Siok Dee, an older woman, as I knew and remembered her. Short hair, done in an Elviric updo. White slashed up on either side of her head from her ears, just like I am starting to gray now. A quibao in holographic gem tones, lace overlay. It’s been designed exactly to her body in high quality material. The real deal, not like the junk you find in San Francisco Chinatown made for tourists.

John, back on his continent, though he was not a west coast man. The bones of his body lie in the massive bones of the Luzon earth, but his ghost is here, with me. He raises his glass of scotch, the tip of the Winston Red lodged in between the middle and index fingers of the same hand slinking smoke up into the air. He clears his throat as if to speak.

Behind each of them, a black tunnel leading into an unknowable abyss. If I walk down each line far enough, I will end up back on the side of the Pacific where I was born.

My ancestors followed me here, and I follow them back.

I run up and down the lines, catching whiffs of perfume and smoke, flashes of clothing and hair. Leaves of palm trees and other lush tropical vegetation through which I see flashes of eyes peering out at me from the darkness, imploring me—