I text my yoga teacher: I think I need
to start medication. I meant

meditation, but the subconscious
knows best. I once wrote a whole poem

about the angel of penetration
rather than admit in my haste

I meant angle of penetration.
Either way, a virgin ascends.

I return a can of paint to the store
because I can’t manage any more

pain, I meant paint. I mean pain.
I keep going back for pain samples

I don’t need. I have gallons of different
shades stored in the basement. Enough

for a fresh coat every year. I don’t take
the medication. There’s nothing worse

than a dull coat of pain. I prefer it
bright and sharp.

For Yasunari Kawabata

Chrysanthemum and nightshade:
I live on them,
though air is what I need.
I wish I could breathe like you,
asleep, or even awake,
just resting your head
on the pillow wrapped in black crepe
that I brought you from Sweden.
I hoped you’d die,
your mouth open, lips dry and split,
and red like pomegranate seeds.
But now, I only want you to suffer.
I drop a stone in the pond
and it sinks through you.
Japan isn’t sliding into the Pacific
this cool April morning, you are.
Yasunari Kawabata, I’m talking to you;
just drop like that stone
through your own reflection.
You stretch your lean hands toward me
and I take them.
Water covers my face, my whole head,
as I inhale myself:
cold, very cold.

Suddenly, I pull back.
For a while, I watch you struggle,
then I start walking back to my studio.
But something is wrong.
There’s water everywhere
and you’re standing above me.
I stare up at you from the still, clear water.
You open your mouth and I open mine.
We both speak slowly.
Brother, you deserve to suffer,
You deserve the best:
this moment, death without end.

Was he mute a while,

or all tears. Did he raise

his hands to his ears so

he could scream scream

scream. Did he eat only

with his fists. Did he eat

as if something inside of him

would never be fed. Did he

arch his back and hammer

his heels into the floor

the minute there was

something he sought.

And did you feel yourself

caught there, wanting

to let go, to run, to

be called back to wherever

your two tangled souls

had sprung from. Did you ever

feel as though something

were rising up inside you.

A fire-white ghost. Did you

feel pity. And for whom.

Click the icon above to listen to this audio poem.

Click the icon above to listen to this audio poem.