Chōshū


In the courtyard, 
1867. 
The last heir,

black-haired and naked
before dawn; 
winter 

starlight through the bare 
branches of the banyan 
fucking whistling—

he’s opened his bowels into the sand.

The camera pulls back for a long shot:
Truth, an
intestine.

Or is it Nightmare?
A stray dog
feasting on the fat steaming 

guts half-spilled.
(Emptied,
he chokes down 

his last, but 
incomprehensible, 
words.)

Like an insect.
Open-jawed
narcissus. 

—It’s grainy in black-and-white.
The wet sound, the eating
dog. 

That.



Apparition

                           —the Poet Ai


When I found the lump silent 
as a grenade in the shadow
of my heartbeat I knew 
I would choose it. Damnit,
If you think I’ll rest in peace
you’re goddamned afraid of yourself. 
This isn't a war. I knew
I was going 

but not in the way you wanted.
Blow my brains out? Please.
I’m not dying for anyone. Not 
for a critic like Beauty, that petulant 
lover. Least of all, for you. Poet,
my silence is my laughter.
I fed it, talked to it, I let it grow. Night 
and fire eating 

Time as if it were 
the hot red banner 
flying from my veins, 
a black wind ripping a stripe off 
the American flag. No. I wasn’t 
angry. I wasn’t sad.
In spite of everything they said,
I was living my life. I was stealing

each minute 
to dance on
this earth where the ghosts were
always good to me.
Forget it!
I’ll never surrender. Nothing, 
nothing can replace 

the country of painful loves I had.