for Li Po
His bones were dust
before the first millennium.
A thousand years after that,
I open a book.
What happened is unclear.
I may have breathed in
just as an image from his mind
formed around my chair
or it could have been
I was unaware
my mouth was open
and he melted on my tongue
like that instant of spun sugar
before you swallow.
Perhaps he slipped
between my ribs
while I was distracted
by the crows flying
from the battlefield
to hang pieces of flesh
on withered trees.
At any rate, it’s done.
And now, some part of me
is a Chinese man despairing
that the beacons of war
are always lit
and I crave
with a terrible thirst
rice wine and
jasper mountains.
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
