Feb 25

mo(u)rning peaches

Night spills the ink of a day
ground to our bones

rooted in place under our eyelids.

the smell of ink addictive,
and laughing gusts, the best type of cancer?

Love braids peach blossoms into figments of want,
and into mother of pearl arm rests on chairs as old as me.

She weaves sunbeams and morning dew and makes 
sugared zodiac animals that dance in her blood.

Gives them flower language,
but all they see is a tree--

spindly tree branches cynical, leafless
for another 三千年, 你知道嗎?

One with our names etched, the trunk where we spilled wine

and then flung our arms around the goddess' legs
as the children, the wailing, do.

I cut myself on the swiss army knife the other day,
and I have finally learned how to mourn with her.

If I squint hard enough in the evening, 
I can nearly see the pink glow of your cheeks again.

Some day I'll learn how to play flower centers on zithers,
but tonight writing our skeletal silhouettes on the page is enough.

I run a hand down her wrinkled bark and sink into the divots
& grooves, falling asleep to see you again.

酒, me and her, your name.

It's morning, and her boughs are finally heavy with immortality,
so why you are not here to eat the peaches?


三千年, 你知道嗎 (san qian nian, ni zhi dao ma?): Three thousand years, do you know?

酒 (jiu): wine

三生,三世,十里桃花 (san sheng, san shi, shi li tao hua): Three lives, three worlds, and ten miles of peach blossoms [a popular chinese drama (that I loved)]