Category: Poetry

Last week the trees outside my window were in flames,

This week their leaves lay on the ground like ashes.

Whose hands are these?

Whose breasts, full and fair, do I bear upon my chest?

Whose thoughts, so simple and clear, here do mingle with my own?

 

Was I the comet come screaming over bowling greens to claim this form?

Or was it she come at midnight to usurp my soul?

Which am I and which is the other?

 

And why can I not know?

In our country, we make love all day long.

她是从天津来的，

我是从Kansas洲来的，

这里我们两个人是外国人，我们互相给国，给家。

She is from Tianjin, I am from Kansas, but here we are both foreigners with only one another for countrymen.

The sun’s bursting light,

Shrill and squeak,

Passes through the bedroom window as thinly sliced rainbows:

Pastel sherbet, pink, orange, red, yellow, lime and citrus,

Filling the room with

The colors of her make up sponge.

 

On the closet door, the sun is a brilliant white triangle

Glowing softly on blankets, pillows and curtains.

There are shadow bars on the ceiling, the hollow reflections of a fish tank.

And on the dresser silver glitter, a mirror and alarm clock.

A low table near the sliding glass doors,

bears small pots filled with dark powder- black, ash, deep purple and tan-

Stuffed with tiny spoons and brushes.

 

She wets her face,

(A blue ribbon holds her hair)

And kneels near the table in an ivory silk robe

Decorated with red, yellow and blue circles that roll into

The robe’s gentle folds, turns and reluctant soft falls.

 

With the sponge, she

Smoothes her cheeks

Pink, tan and avocado.

Pulls her hair,

Licks her finger to blend the corner of her mouth.

 

Then opens the curtains;

Only white light.

 

Through the window,

Butterflies with crayon colored wings

Carried along by currents in the air,

Wheel awkwardly through the garden,

With wire insects, hair clip grasshoppers,

cotton moths,

and salt and pepper gnats.

I watch the movies like everyone else but

In the lining of the curtains,

the background singers’ harmony,

the hum of the air conditioner and

the occasional small talk, I hear someone speaking without stopping.

Through the airport and restaurant announcements,

the songs and the Gospel,

(tireless and determined)

sometimes loud, shocking and alarming,

and always there.

It is my voice, but I do not understand the words.

Tears gather, flowers follow

Attention gets hungry but doesn’t get homesick.

Attention has a center but it has no bounds. It might be the eye of a storm. It certainly has no master but it is quite easily seduced.

It, by nature, is curious and fearless, sometimes fool-hearty and often gets lost.

And there are persons and things that will set traps for Attention with interest.

Attention will gobble up interesting things, sex, money or attention. Nothing gets your Attention like attention.

 

Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like and what would happen if my Attention wandered away from me and never came back.

Supposing, one day, it pushed out the screen door and into the night.

It won’t get cold, not even in the coldest night air- but it will ask whether a bug gets cold.

What if it never came back? Perhaps, because it got lost or perhaps because it found a better home.

And there are people who are hungry for attention, so it certainly could end up on someone’s plate.

 

But there, I take comfort in Imagination.

Imagination and Attention are not the same, though they both tend to go off by themselves.

While Attention will look around for something to do, Imagination will build a campfire and feast on some enormous bird.

Attention can easily be fooled or confused, and it is Imagination that does the fooling and confusing.

So, I know if my Attention wanders off, it will most likely fall prey to my Imagination and though they may never come home again, at least they are together.

 

Run, Red Dress, run to him.
Let your tongue dance on his cheek and lips.

Let him chase the flashing light across your eyes.

Rain spattered Red Dress, Dance Slow Wind!

 

Smear red swirl,

Flash black eyes,

Speak hot breath,

Paint his jeans with fire!

He dies, but he dies just as he lives, making the exit with dignity and obedience, begging away as a fishermen to a quiet lake.

He dies as he lives, he eats and drinks and sits before the television doing crosswords, while the days trail on like well lit boxcars sometimes awkwardly, sometimes smoothly, passing at the crossing gate.

He dies as he lives, turning the page, going to the toilet, eating the next meal, changing the channel. There is no seam in the film, no shudder crossing the tracks, no jarring lights. It is continual change that takes him and he humbly goes.

Just as he humbly returns, passing through a revolving door, entering the theater in a new life, on another stage.