Inside my ear there dwelt a mouse
who lived within a ham hock house.
He liked to sport a three-piece suit
and toot upon a Gouda flute,
but when he jammed all through the night,
we fell against one nasty fight,
and thus he split in a sedan
stitched from a quilted frying pan.
“Goodnight,” he chirped with a swing
of his cane and a tip of his hat. And at
that moment the sky came crashing
down. A delicate crown of light
slipped over my head, yet darkness
was all that I knew. The wind blew
him farther and farther away from me.
Tepid mint tea briefly lingered on my
baffled tongue. I was young once
Mama is the quiet one,
like the small,
pretty angel that sits up on our
Papa is the noisy one,
like the big,
angry wind that rattles my bedroom window
raised to heaven
bellow for three cadets
whose days beneath the cruel sun
It was written on his clavicle
in daubs of dying wisteria by
oppressively agile hands.
I was summoned to the theatre,
though I wore only my nightshirt.
His fists are weeping, even now.
I tremble beneath the hidden spikes.
I tremble; he is colder than the night.
They speak of nasturtium and distant
breasts, one arid tongue at a time.
Without the head, the body falls.
What was done here shall have no memory.
Wide brims of light blind a corpulent
matron. She has only ever seen receding
snatches of the cyclical punishment–needy
but resentful–attached to her coattails. She
dreams–often–floating freely through a
sea of checkered lanterns to discover a
new (and better) dwelling.
Contracts are finite.
Attachments, not yet severed.
It is, perhaps, the suffering children clinging
to her hem, who make the brightness so
But oddly when you tell me that
my face looks like a sickly rat,
you neglect to think
of our zygote link;
this sad skin,
is your twin.
This is a shot of Nagano Prefecture’s Lake Suwa just after sunset. The statue is of Princess Yaegaki, who is a key figure in Honcho Nijushiko. Honcho Nijushiko is a five-act drama that was first performed in 1766. At the end of the story, Yaegaki walks across a frozen Lake Suwa to save her lover from a violent death.
When he beholds the anguish
of his ally,
hot, briny rivers begin to gush from
The caustic thorn which punctures
a cherished one
will crush your own heart into a
White bird in the distant bright, if it please
your youthful heart, come and unfold
those mighty wings by green arrow’s edge.
Around us, red leaves murmur of the approaching
frost, yet, I suspect that her apron pockets contain
secrets which we will never hear.
White bird in the distant light, if it please
your faithful heart, come and promenade
gracefully by my weary, rain-washed eyes.
The persimmons are slinking away and
I fear that we shall never meet again.
If it please you, it would please me.