On nights like these
we like to call ourselves stargrazers,
deep sky tourists.
We head up to the headland,
where heaven grafts itself to earth,
stitching the breeze between
our cheekbones, our fingertips.
Below, the sea stretches out
with an endless hush. You tell me
we'll sit in the rift
of the tide's smile to keep in touch
with the muchness of being
and believing. But seeing
beyond that pale of blacklight
is another matter. You have a map,
so you take the back of my hand
and paint a picture in mime
and synaesthesiac rhyme:
Our sky is like cats' eyes
kaleidoscopin
When papers ask me where I'm from, I write "Seattle," because they don't want to know the real answer. When people ask me where I'm from, I say "downtown," and they take a good look at me and take that to mean "Chinatown."
My parents run one of the zillion dim sum restaurants here. They're what the white kids at school call "fresh off the boat." Most of the people here are. They don't speak English at home, and they try not to at work. They don't watch anything on American TV; they read the local Chinese paper and watch the one Asian channel, pausing to turn off the TV in disgust whenever one of the five daily Korean soap operas comes on. On
i.
You taught me that every river has a ribcage
filled with crayfish and cast-off pebbles
and a whisper where the heart should be.
If you look the currents in the eye
you will find a wishbone jutting from the gaps and
gasping for air, a stray limb or
misguided root that has forgotten
how to grow toward the sun. Grab both ends
and pull
until the fault line stretches all the way
to the ocean. You will hear it splinter,
the marrow dripping out like hot wax or
some frozen nectar
bled from unsuspecting sky.
This is where the evening
splits in two: one half scribbled hastily
on the back of a shedding rainstorm and the other
devour
Our Discontent Made Glorious by CyneNoir, literature
Literature
Our Discontent Made Glorious
in winter days, mother wakes heavy-lidded
as her skeleton recollects itself
and stumbles
in a half-thought arrangement of curious limbs,
trying to teach the ribcage
how to sew back together its columns of rough-hewn teeth
so her swelling light does not spill through open slits,
a heart anchored firmly in her chest and pushing fire
through tangled veins.
tender bones shake off lakes of snow
from where they drifted into the craters that hide
behind her knees
while the thickened night presses forests of gentle bruises into an aching spine
and counts all the ways dead trees could blossom. white-winged larks
are the first to flock to
I. So it comes to this: pangea tearing itself raw
from our throats to pour into squares of newly open sky
where the stars grew aches and darkened lakewater
once bloomed into bruised winters. Somewhere
beyond the thick of snow, prayers are strung
on moon-rattled winds
and birds' teeth tear apart the poetry
of our hands. They will raise something beautiful
from these ruined words.
Continents shift slowly. They are
dirt-bound titans, these beasts;
rootless giants that mold themselves
to fit the vision we hold inside our heads. Oceans sigh
and their tides crawl ever upward.
II. Our shadows become umbilical
in certain light. Unknown children cas
the spinning mantra of my
outbursts of quasar sightings
has reached gale-force momentum
making time slow down for me,
why I'm fading from your sight
your inhalations and your life,
till I no longer move at all--
rapid firings from the boreal forge
freeze frame your clenched fists
like iron in a lung that will
one day become
a talisman you find on your tongue
My mother tended her first yield tender,
with slender fingers interlocked in a cradle
placed over her ripe stomach,
the calluses raised from farm labor
serving as little pillows for her son.
The first time she felt the quake underneath her flesh
the little feet,
the kicking feet that would someday hold up a man
she whispered his name,
Masahiro, Masahiro.
The son rising in the east to reflect her soul.
But dawn broke too early,
stretching its scarlet, wet arms over her underwear,
spitting defiance in a rush of water soaking her feet.
On the way to the hospital,
she clutched her splitting stomach,
screaming and ple
Dearheart,
you are the shadow-specter painted upon these white-washed walls, the phantasm inked on maple scrolls grown dank with hope that aged amidst the dust, the ghost that haunts the stargazer lilies blooming in the depths of the mud. Belladonna crawls along the woodwork of weeping willows, their roots reaching for the sky as they strangle the morning glories that crumble in the pre-rain gloom. Skylarks lull crabapple trees to sleep and sing as the dawn arises from behind a veiled fog.
There is a balcony carved from rowan in the front yard, where we shall sit in the dying half-light of dusk and sip at gently-steaming jasmine, and I will