Guilin, China
Slipping into a Chinese scroll,
I'm on the Li River as it ribbons
among misted mountains,
peaks hiding, then re-emerging.
Water buffalo bathe in the river
and on the banks, women wash clothes.
A man stands on a narrow boat,
poles his way through the water. With him,
a lone cormorant, collared, and tethered.
The black seabird dives into the limpid water,
returns, and gives up the fish he caught.
His reward — a minnow he can swallow.
Easy to feel for the cormorant,
easy to see its collar and tether.
Hard to feel for the man,
hard to see his collar, his tether.
My Companion
I walk my dream dog:
Heart needs no leash.
She bounds ahead, then runs back,
herds me to see what she sees:
a blooming bird of paradise.
She jumps into my arms,
looks me over close,
my barometer, measuring
if I need attention.
Then she's back to sniffing life.
Heart came to me in a dream—
and stayed.
|
Seven Years Old, 1947
I can't run.
My shoes soles flap —
swish-step, swish-step.
Leaving for work
Mother gives me money,
and warns: The shoemaker
doesn't speak English.
He'll write the price on paper.
You sit, wait till they are done.
Scared, I enter the dim shop,
inhale musty shoe and polish smells.
A bent man stops hammering.
I remove my shoes,
and set them on the counter.
He looks at them and I look at
the black in the cracks of his fingers.
He writes $1. I nod and sit, waiting.
Placing my shoe on a metal foot,
he positions a new sole,
puts a handful of nails in his mouth,
pushes out one at a time, and tap, taps.
I've entered a fairy tale,
met an elf or a troll.
When he finishes,
I try out my shoes,
hand him a dollar,
open the door and run.
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