Saint Rosa, 1
for the husband of my past, i write no history.
the old books in the library of my heart
record a few sad stories of defeat.
a group of soldiers lined up like children.
returning home to snail-shells on coral reefs.
abandoning vague scraps of hope, among
broken sharks’ teeth.
for my lovers, i search for an anxious body
abandoned in a room filled with men
eager to set the world on fire. they offer
stacks of second-hand goods. wonderful
air-conditioning machines. i enjoy the warmth,
it is brief, silent. my thirst is endless.
disappointment makes me mad. i have stayed too long.
i want to climb up into the Himalayas and stay there.
watch my breath grow cold. then explode
and destroy the world.
but i am tired of dreaming.
the house is narrow and covered with dirt.
if hope should ever arrive
it would be a useless lump of time.
ninomaru shogun palace, 2001.
Saint Rosa, 2
i am writing a poem about love.
the sun hides behind mist from the lake.
a fairy walks along the curve of the rainbow.
through the torn curtains of an old house.
i count the dust of my years.
boredom grows old quickly.
pirates and men searching for treasure
attack your boat.
the distant sun hangs on a rope.
there are no maps.
we make jellyfish eggs, and watch them burst open
hatching camels. the sea turns into a desert.
coral reefs become graves for kings
inside tall pyramids.
watch our ancient journey,
full of misery and complaint.
suck my nipples in your restlessness.
stab my vagina with your careful plans of death.
i will weave you a necklace of pythons
and stinging scorpions. i will watch time freeze
and be happy. the deer screams
under the leopard’s hungry breath.
to exhaust the burning
of my tiny wound.
again and again.
i am Sita, the one who refused
to burn herself in the fire
as proof to Rama, her cowardly husband,
of her innocence.
afterwards i washed my body
with black blood
so that my passion would shine,
grow in a field of vile ascent.
i hunted Rawana
and told him to fuck me
high in the open sky.
i let him fly there, so that
the cowardly hands of a defeated man
could not reach me.
who said love is white? grey, perhaps,
or as black as my life.
hear my gentle moans
holy and immortal.
i want to live, not in the fire –
that home for sinners,
but in useless, shameful silence.
so that my history will be separate
from the lives of weak men, liars,