Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Nothing is ever as it seems.
The Chinese people downstairs are like big jolly panda babies--
When I come in in the evening,
Bones gone rubbery and my heart growling like a fighting dog inside my chest,
They smile, ladling benign ancient blessings over me like pork gravy.
I become a biscuit,
The white girl smiling back, calling them honey and darlin just as if they came from
Alabama and not Shanghai.
They go in, draw the curtains, and speak rapidly to each other in dialect while waving kitchen knives,
Let myself in upstairs, take off my absurdly heavy parka,
And put the newly arrived bills under the chipped jade Buddha paperweight an old girlfriend gave me.
That was in ancient times when love seemed possible
And the old Polish couple still lived below,
Boiling their cabbage,
Never hearing the rude jokes we made at their expense
In between kisses
And lapping up
The ridiculous, absurd shit we told each other,
Like, "No matter what, I will always love you,"
"Wherever we live,
Wherever we are,
As long as we are,
for One Shot Wednesday 31