They made the finest things / of bone and zealous shell: / homes for the scholars who / scuttled maze-like down

Magic grows in the interstices: / shadowy blades springing / from the hands of statues, / herb and root, flower and fruit

To trace the taboo labyrinth, sneak / past the frigid swells, between breakers, / make your way / up the pebbled strand, bare feet bleeding.

My grandfather was a herbalist— / he mixed rare leaves and seeds, ground them together / & when he was done, he smeared the mixture on my forehead. / This will protect you from evil spirits, He said.

i find my body and my body / in the banyan tree i find my body / the tree finds its body in me

“Why do so many Asians believe in ghosts?” / Two white yokai scholars won’t stop gawking / at us like we’re aliens seen through a telescope. / They bait our deceased ancestors to rise up