Poetry / February 2011 (Issue 13)


Aubade

by Randy Gonzales

 

 

We sat grown quiet at a nibblet

in a chopstick grip. We sat at soft sake

sips                                                               over bottle clack. We grew quiet

at tatami stretched to welcome mat. 

 

Grown quiet at blow fish swollen

in wide-brim hats.                                                                Quiet at trains

departing a temple's grasp. At rice-

field shimmer                 

under a mountain's chest.

 

 

Still quiet at a hawker's melon-

bouncing shout,                   an obassan

in blossoms swept. We sat at

her broom-bent back--                                 grown

reconciled with neat white piles.

 

At angles pigeons patch-- quietly

at blue sky circle back, Yuka's

fourth kimono change, sunlight

sprint over woken toes,  first

rice tangled in steaming bowls.

We knelt quietly over tea--

cups held in whispering blows.

 

 

 

We sat quiet at piano curls

in stilted horns, Trish's

stare-raising voice.                 We sat

in incense waft,  temple's draft,

strumming blues-hot curry bowls,

 

teapots cupped with hands of snow.

 

 

At Mirin bowing to her toes, flowers

rising in the surf-- crashing waves

to blossoms birth,              school girls,

freshly printed plaques-- less rhythm at

wood clattered prayers. We quietly sat

in yakitori-tongue

entrée skewered.

 

In snow snapped limbs of sculpted trees,

childhood chases of paper cranes,

morning tilts against the breeze.

 

At petals turned,                   futons stacked,  golden

sunlit tatami mats,                       trembling rays                                             we go quiet at.

 

 

 

--Fukui, Japan

 
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