I drink coffee and learn it is
a laxative. toilet seats. ice cubes.
songs that remind me of you:
songs that don’t. the rain is
a silver tambourine over
my head. in every class I
teach I begin with a proverb.
birds, pots of gold. No man is
an island. I ask my Malaysian
students to define “glitter.”
they make a shaking motion
with their hands. in Japan,
I meet a white-haired woman who
tells me her name means Moon. “but
I am crescent now,” she says.
“soon I will disappear.” we wave
to each other on the subway.
the chairs are plastic
and blue. I forget my watch,
and the map winks with lines.
easy. the thousand ways I sit.
bound for Nasu, I watch
a mother swipe her child
on the cheek. in me: muscle,
bone. my sister’s nose, my father’s
tongue. the way he says prawn.
the way I wash a well-oiled
platter. the way I kiss
another mouth. pears.
pearls. I bite. I bite.
somebody pours
water into the mug: perfect
downfall. wet, bluing
squiggles. forget
subways. forget
I called. when I ascend
the stairs I see a cat
near a stray mango tree, I
do not shy away. I say my own
name. plug my fist into
the jar of honey, electrify.
disappear, then come
home again. tomorrow
I’ll eat. and the years
will turn themselves over.
milk, spirals
of rain. what we
choose. worlds we
kiss. everything
we leave behind—
wrappers. shadows.
a mammal, howling beneath
the street-light. licking