IT TAKES GUTS: FANTASY AND MEMORY
Flying into light they want the shades down while
I need sun — seeing is breathing and who knows what
magic unscrolls inside that cloud proscenium. Years
ago I caught the shadow of a stork out there soaring
so fast I might have missed him had it not been for the
gransdon I found snuggled in his feathers on arrival.
Yesterday I saw that he’d been captured in a fine teak
panel by a Ming wood carver. How swiftly a soul flies —
freed from the thrashing of molecules and marrow.
I first saw the adenoidal seven-year-old, hair angled
defiantly,a little nasal and a little toothy, at the
door with his two brothers. Serious stuff, this being
the eldest. There I was, me and my three-year-old girl
taking in these pups n’ their poppa — sexy heart-throb —
when senior kid gets to the nitty-gritty — where’s
her toys — so there go these boys tangled in jump
rope, siblings before they knew the true meaning
of tying a knot, and when our vows were said,
an open-heartedness in the form of white waste
paper baskets with painted bands appeared, treasures
offered in the plain face of father’s newest buddies.
I see this cauldron under glass, Shang dynasty,
ancient bronze festooned with dragons and nearby,
two bins of special provenance adorned with rings.
My surreal meanderings — memories of
older bro, guru of ping pong and hardballs juggled
in his mama’s conjugal catastrophe. How fast
they flew, like imperial dragons off the roof, each
brandishing five toes — one for the province of water
gushing in breakers from a salty ocean, one for the
province of wind, searing breath of rage, one for
the ashen protectorate — that noiseless cover,
one for the pounding in the galactic egg and one
pulled from the soil of rectitude. At seventeen Alan
looked to hit a few — the crack of ball on paddle,
welcoming hot shot Chinese players to our spare digs,
red-shirt rivals reared in the gyms of Beijing or
Chonqing living proof of détente in rolls of tourney
fencing on our rec-room floor, ping-pong diplomacy,
a spirit whose dream at the time of his body’s
decline was that he might find time for just one
more round. One more round — didn’t matter what
he threw, squash ball, golf ball, niece or nephew,
all fine so long as you kept the sucker moving n’
off the ground, ball breaking with unintended
consequences, that moving magic spinning‘round
in a press of body English when whirligigs rang
with laughter from child to child swinging wild.
We were best buddies, Alan and I — two of us
strutting our stylish caps around railway station snack
bars, single track minds fixed on zesty. In my limbic
bona fides, I relive recent indulgences — spicy
duck blood with noodles and tofu stew at a Xian bistro
with my Chinese guide and see a flicker of Alan
dim sum buff reliving those tripes at Tai Tung
that fired up a hankering for garlicky innards — never
ducked guts reflected in his early approval of my
boiled tongue with gingersnap sauce, and of course,
he couldn’t get enough. Key lime, the pack’s alpha
had a weak spot for it, personal fridge bootie once
wolfed by littlest brother triggering territoriality,
but no matter — that slice vanished outta mind like
lox off a platter. My tongue can’t utter the loss.
Under phosphorescent skies, the Li River scrolls
out its galloping pinnacles from Yangshuo to Guilin,
their limestone karst conjuring tales of entangled
passage in this realm of light. Heavy bales of
cloud hang like God’s dumplings, so low you could
hit ‘em with a paddle.