Donika Kelly | Poetry
Listen to Tianyi read this poem.
零.
I have existed
towards a question
like needle to desire
一. Good Soup
is clear and robust
winter melon dissolved with ribs
served beside wild cress in broth,
a recipe from the mountains.
When the home wintered,
the surest thing was soup
made in stone, like dead pelt,
or my dad’s uncut beard.
二.
It was darker than craving
between her need for me and
my need for ears
No mistake, it was a weathering.
She shoveled wounds out a cradle
I offered pliers, she said: breath.
Out the midafternoon breast
of desert, the lonesome distant
as language, is hired by the lonesome.
三. Before Magome-juku
There was a cairn for a ronin
“Pathseeker, had you become snow,
were you still swinging in the cold?”
There was a cairn for a monk
“Teacher, look!
the universe is maddening—”
I stretched my tongue over bones
for wisdom as ornament,
Ah—I am so ashamed,
speaking to no one.
四.
The dream involved my spreading blood
over a great stag and my ever failing to kiss it.
I send canoe-shaped letters to space—
they return as crows, not shy of any god.
五.
A lake is proven by a sleeping poet—
I know because lakes are round
like a face, and have one expression
like a dead face.
六. Age of Pomegranates as Dream
Now I take my shoes off for them.
Now I gather buckets of fireflies.
We are at the age of pomegranates,
when people begin to die.
Unwalking from each philosophical
position for a seat at the pianos.
Those that are pitched and off tune
I tend and tune.
Those that are already inside-out
I give verbs like plead.
Within the sound of rain
or dread, a future unreachable
by mouth soaks in the sun,
I confess it is sweet.