I gave my Chinese girlfriend  Marx in English, then we laughed among the tulips. We laughed  until her father came between us— a memory of him she carried— a small man surrounded by lathes in a factory near Lanzhou. Every day for thirty years he ate the same for lunch: noodles, cabbage, an inch of dried mackerel. Every evening  she washed his hands, wishing  there were pudding, chocolate, news to break the seasons that weren’t quite seasons, gray days mostly of rain. Still, she found it worthy to believe in something, something past my kisses, my attention, my compassion.  I knew the Lanzhou sun  never properly shone; I knew  she was divided—here and there, spirit and bone, sand and star,  as Hegel teaches. She liked the yellow  tulips best, and I the reds, and as we  walked toward the tea garden  at the edge of the park, she let go  of my hand then took it once again.