by Li Zhuang
& by some miracle, I was still alive.
Our relationship healed much faster
than the blue peninsulas of bruises
inked in our arms, thighs & upper abdomens.
Our cuts were no longer wet,
some of the scabs peeled,
red ellipses mapped out
a universe
where fingernails and knuckles flashed across
——blazing tidal tails
Sitting on the sofa, we watched TV and talked about almost everything
the winter Olympics that were boycotted by at least three nations,
(“obviously, it was a power play,” said the political commentator)
the weather, the shape of tea leaves in our white ceramic cup, left overnight,
unwashed, my unhealed Covid symptoms, the provincial travel restrictions,
our long-due visit
to Lingying Temple where newly-wed couples pray for conjugal survival.
“You’re suffocating me with honey,” I finally accused you.
You were peeling a fuji apple, rather rationally,
with a pocket knife which,
at breaking point,
we had both reached for.
I watched the redness spiraling around your fingers
loop after loop, swirling—
a tenuous infinity
swinging on sharp edge.
The Japanese granny next door hummed her tune again:
Three years ago, all was well.
Two years ago, all was well.
Last year, all was well. [1]
[1] This poem quotes from The Setting Sun by Japanese author Osamu Dazai, translated by Donald Keene. New Directions, 1956.
