Sei Shonagon

* a reference to the Japanese fable of Momotaro

 

Sei Shonagon

 

Along the flatter edges of her hips

His hands form a tryst

There where her back holds a simile of laughter

This nighttime daughter of herself though quieter is

less reserved than that courtier

But what does he know anyway

He was born inside a peach (*)

Before there was only paper, small envelopes folded tight

Burnt to ash when the moon was dark

Almohada

It begins innocuously enough

Pallid, white, the whispers are hardly enough to attract attention

They see in each other a validity

Speeches run silt like, sideways turning

Eroding the embarrassed silences, finding a secure astonishment

They sit like starfish, clutching for some sort of reliability

But it is only sand that shifts under their feet

Beyond that even, tectonic plates drifting

Count this moment solid

The next one is a dream only

And perhaps there will never be again a time for sleep

Siempre, the wind rolls the clouds

Always it has been like this

And yet no one can truly describe the precision

Of the ocean’s balance

No one can measure the depth of the dried cut

When water first grinds along the canyon

Time grabs its overcoat

daylight turns to colder night

They move closer to each other’s core

Cotton shines like silk

Soft moonlight versus the clarity of sun

Weaves

Threads so finely twisted that all arguments are lost

before they are half begun

She begins the new calligraphy in a finely bound book

With renewed dedication