I confess I can see, but I cannot moderate, nor love as I ought. Walking through
Chinatown at night, I feel love, but can't
know where to send it. If love is an act, I don't. If love could
course down Hotel Street like an electric pulse, I'd need a crowd.
“That's Harry's cousin,” Lau said of the man on the sidewalk at
Longs, his body thrashing, pointer finger cutting
at the air. He nodded hello
to Lau's brother Sam.
When we walked back, coffees
in hand, the man still surged
in place. In this cast of characters, it's we who wear the masks. My
student placed five on the table, wore one as she read her poems. She
who needs none collects them. The city is most intimate where
people sit or lie on cardboard or blanket, as if an
earthquake
tore buildings
into doll-houses. I cut my
doll's hair until there were
only stubs. That was the day
I swore her
off.
--19 May 2015
1 comment:
Ah! I did this to dolls, too, and then refused to play with them. Probably I need to write my own poem about this...
I'd suggest beginning with the second sentence, "Walking through Chinatown..." or modifying the first sentence so it's an amplification instead of a restatement.
I love "That was the day I swore her off," & Harry's cousin. Is he also a literal brother? - no, but brother to Lau throws me. Or wait - is the speaker walking with Lau and Lau's brother? Some little confusion.
Post a Comment