Poetry
Halsing for the Anchylose
They made the finest things / of bone and zealous shell: / homes for the scholars who / scuttled maze-like down
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
Shrive me, beloved, / for I have exhausted / the bellows of / this particular life.
decide, in the ignorant way of children / that now’s the time to grow up / fold away your dreams / along with your wings
Did anyone think about cleaning advice / for carpets stained with enchanted detritus / the silt from a thousand journeys
She didn’t cry when it happened. / She knew before the news told the story. / She knew in the way that a woman knows