i. Dust-Filled Afternoon
The rain has finally stopped. Yet, something inexplicably unsettling lingers beneath the surface—
a perplexing feeling. It started one afternoon long ago, this persistent, unshakable dread. Like
autumn arriving, leaves turning into rainwater, I worry that stepping on them will lead only to
emptiness, afraid to tread firmly. My hands feel utterly listless. I turn my head and glance
askance. The reflection in the mirror is hard to accept. I look away, and just like that, no evidence
remains.
ii. Mirror
A wild boar that escaped the pigsty digs at the dirt with its snout. I heard something happened
down south, and the north has begun to snow. In the heart of the forest, the boar digs its hole.
The moment I turn off the light, this boar—suddenly leaps into my mind, digging. You close your
eyes, yet you sense it: in the heart of the forest, a wild boar is digging a hole.
Even when we become two stones leaning against one another, breathing the air that rises
around us, the image of the boar digging remains.
iii. This Century
Modern cities have no walls; I am someone who lives in a modern city. Yet, in the end, the city
gives birth to new walls. Ports with walls resemble dragons with broken wings. Jade is still buried
beneath the earth, but its surface is coated with a layer of dust, ash sifted down by city dwellers.
People upon the walls wait for the jade below. Suddenly falling silent, like clouds sealing their
lips. A dragon flies among the clouds, new walls. They block the clouds outside the city.
iv. Lotus Blossoms
I stand on the stone tiles by the lake. A wild duck swims out from behind the lotus leaves. Pink
and white blend together. Back in summer, or perhaps it was spring, the blossoms came to life. I
stand on the shore watching the flowers, but my thoughts can’t settle on them. My eyes seem to
see the blossoms, yet the image is unclear. My stomach is empty, though I’m not conscious of
the hunger. I walk on, hollow, not knowing where I’m going. Everyone else seems to have a
destination. I can only watch from the sidelines, wander aimlessly, with no idea of the
destination. The wild duck, deep within the lotus leaves—I still don’t know where to go.
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There is no particular sound
that rustles through the trees,
different from the music
we listen to.
different than the sounds
our hearts are used to.
Your hands grab and hold me
like I have somewhere
better to be,
fingers interwoven
against the middle
of my back,
like tiny branches,
like this is where you
planned to be,
settling deeper
into my chest.
I press my lips to your forehead,
a place filled with dark honey
surrounded by mahogany oak,
where dreams sit and they soak
until they are sticky and ripe.
I kiss you like
the night has no end,
like your bones have endless marrow,
like there isn’t another you.
Your arms are still.
Your lips say nothing.
There is no particular sound
that rustles through the trees,
no different than how
my heartbeat
thumps against yours.
I wish I could’ve met you
That you could’ve told me stories about your childhood, your family, anything
I wish we could’ve had coffee together, or a breakfast as foreign to me as everyday-bacon
Maybe sausage, Virginia-style! Or Carolina grits, anything!
I got too many missed chances with folks,
I had absolutely no chance of gettin’ to know you
I pray you were enough of a God-fearin’ man, pray Heaven is where you are
Maybe we could meet there, or maybe we were never meant to know of each other
Only God knows.
She leaves for the south
never to see home again.
The winds are at her back.
Red rock valleys roll and release
into the unfurled fields and flowers
The Great Plains stretch out to define
the sawtooth Appalachian Mountains.
Her message has a mighty meaning.
She signals health and happiness.
Hers is a journey says to all,
Fertile is the future.
She rests on the corn plant.
A chemical rain descends.
Blisters begin on the wings.
The burning knocks her down.
Her flight falls furiously.
Her antenna curl over her eyes.
Tumbling and crashing,
her migration, invisible.
He headed to the north.
leaving a sailor’s life.
His family’s fishing ship.
an empty catch.
Searching for a home,
a white ghost forest watches him walk.
Concerned from the grave
their roots, ocean salted.
On day thirty, his breath shortens.
He lies on the ground.
Sees the burnt butterfly, eye to eye.
He buries the dead monarch.
Dirt over the wings
Blesses her and thinks,
We are all foreign somewhere
First, we would load up the car, with salty
sunflower seeds in our pockets and thermos’
in hand, and when we took to the lot
we used buckets that we filled with blackberries
bursting in the August sun. We took them home,
and sat purple mouthed with fingers
bramble-worn from the pricking, as grandma
cooked them with sugar in a big pot, and the next
morning it was my job to help get the biscuits done.
Then we’d open a jar and pry the wax from the top,
and sometimes chew it up like gum, but only after
we got to the good stuff at the bottom.
