Tuesday, May 19, 2015


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:

Karen said...

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.