The year I married
My hair was long and heavy,
A river of black
It uncoiled from my fingers.

+++

I came to know my husband slowly,
Not as others do
Through long impatient nights
Sleepless with passion.

No. It was the tea
I served to a stranger.
It was the silence at the well
As he drew fish from the catchpond.

His hands holding the fish
The fish salted and impaled
The stick leaning into the fire
The fish curling in the flame.

+++

On a day without guests,
Dressed in indigo and white
He kneels at a table
Grinding an inkstick against the stone.

He writes the moon.
Four strokes in order
Hand in air, brush to paper
Black on white.

I am putting susuki
Into a wide-mouthed jar.
He is watching my hands, my arms.
What is he thinking?

+++

I am told his mother
Died a wasting death;
His father lived a week
Alone and then went after.

Their ashes sit in the altar,
He bows in reverence.
He never understood.
A priest will read the sutras.

He moves through life
As if it were a dance.
His steps are matchless,
How graceful, my husband.

+++

Today and tomorrow, guests ~
Their corded calves and hard feet,
Dust in their clothing,
The smell of distance.

They drink by the hearth,
Speaking the intimate
Short speech of men.
Their eyes slide from my face.

The meaning of service:
The covers are clean,
The rice is ready.
My neck is long and white.

+++

The first sold sake,
Plum wine and strong beer.
His shadow was dark against my shoji,
His cautious whispers, thick.

Tonight another taps and waits.
Where is my peerless husband?
The fire burns low with smoke,
The blackened fish writhe.

In my dreams I scream again ~
So much light in the darkness.
In the morning I will cut my hair,
One uneven hank for each pleasure.

7.1.84

11:52:05 PM    please comment []