Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Poem Of The Day


The first time I ate Chinese
She made me use chopsticks
The sticks hung like broken fingers
But she insisted I try
\She had traveled to China
Slept in a tent on the steppe
Where little villagers
Marveled at red hair
\All that I understand of China
A custom here, a forbidden temple
Spilled from her pink mouth
And crept inside of me
\Now, I cook my own Chinese
In a tarnished wok on the stove
The smell lingers in the carpet
Of this dim apartment
\And some nights, I hear through walls
Two making love
Their whispers and cries sound foreign to me
And could be Chinese

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