4: An out of round homage to what I call home

After Sappho & Anne Carson

[It is mid-autumn. So the crescent coils into
a ball of entangled arteries/veins. At the dinner table
we feast on boiled pig livers & chicken] heart1 [s.

Men spit wisdom into the ashtray. Talk revolution
& war & chew the lotus seed filling with their mouths open.
Let gunpowder burst from the dark cavern where
their fathers hid & their fathers’ fathers smoked opium
for winters until family is surrendered
for rice & war waxed into a unit in time.

The women trust time & ] absolutely
[nothing else. For like the moon, we bleed
& blossom until the sun sags our bosoms
with his accomplice: In America,
they call him Gravity/John/ Thomas
& they call us Communists.
For as early as] I can [remember.

Pain in my culture is shared. The geometry of
the dinner table ties scattered dots
into a rope. Like sisters & brothers we drink
to the way our monolids wane in union,

falling victim to our mothers’ jester/
syllables of a foreign tongue.
To understand] would be for me [winning
a lottery & catching the last train to New York City
before the blizzard hits. Flushing is lit

on fire] to shine in answer [to
our ancestors– on the other side
of the moon/ war. Gaping] faces [match wit
with craters/bombshells fit the mold
used to sculpt mooncakes & fold lanterns.] [Out of
round circles] having been strained [by massacres/
hate that grew taller than Maple trees & stains of
red which we call home.]

1. unbracketed fragments cites Sappho’s fragment 4, translated by Anne Carson

Hypotheticals: A tribute to Lesbia

After Catallus

Suppose the sparrow is dead/
dying/limping in the park
between your legs before
molting its chipped wings, shrinking
into a vase depraved of soil &
sunlight that rains. Suppose over time the mouth
of the vase grows into a worn out valley
until its walls erode & clay shreds
into paper flakes. Now, the flower is bitter

& naked. Winter’s breathiness attacks her
until she wilts, slips off her petals
as if they, when stitched together, bloom
into a satin nightgown. Let her roots spin,
stir Let Nothing be the witness
of their demise. Let her give

the sparrow a hundred kisses
& a thousand more, until hate finds its
solace in passion. For what is hatred
but love stuck in a bottomless pit
of dirty laundry & love buried/
dying/ lining up for cremation.
They are the same man & it is the same river