long poem

she claimed no descent from emperors
or their mistresses no family tale
of grandiose death no tale of rippled
sorrows rice is thrown into the fire
to remember her and the largest bull
is wrestled her soul adrift in far wild
riverbanks thinking only
of her joys inspite
of living as the empire still extending
still extending she lived alone
amongst the inland lakes
rearranging the odes of local
toddy stores her bright
iridium bird of spirit
broken her falcon to the world
of dead lay dead himself
and no more when she wrote
of rivers could we hear
their very roar no more
the throat of red jade

legends accrue but leave her corpse
cold she preferred to be of clay not
the soar and swoop of nymph
in lakes of cinammon wine. she
gazes into the water waiting
breaking the river's mirror's
promise. warble water

holding apartments with roofs of
hibiscus leaf. eyes might meet
in temple halls and shoot at stars
reveal angels white teeth.

the rooftop of the ministries
obscure the skies. she
eats flowers and cannot keep pace
with the hours she searches
for the sandal prints of the old
to cool her fever as she
waits for the copper
transparence of angels their
spinal cord splayed open
pierced no chariots for them
they descend prostrate

she wakes in exile marks
her oeuvre on stone cylinder
nude of calligraphy a carp
in the cold sea of time

holding only the studied indifference
an eye on each corner of the spring
a self fulfilling silence etched
in every nerve's signature
happy to not understand
even wine made her peaceful

pastel is the best. so many
children & so little wine but
she drags herself to her sister's
funeral. the empty stories
are the funniest, monastries to
laughter write only the simplest
poems and fewest

a mountain of mulberry