Private Obituary

Last year’s

cheong-sam

from the closet scented with sandalwood,

the gold brocade faintly redolent

of an old romance, fading

like distant lights trembling in wind.

Who softly calls your nickname?

In moonlight brittle as thirty years ago

throw on your black velvet cape

and pass tonight through a windy forest,

where black branches stretch their claws

across the late winter sky of a foreign land.

Keep going toward the center of the woods,

the tick of insects in the weeds

sharp as a crowd’s whispers, rasping

the legend of an old Asian woman,

her wrists withered vines too frail to grasp,

her dress hem soaked in forest dew.

The scattered lamps of the village dim.

Step by step you enter night’s chamber.

The path vanishes in deep trees.

Till the end of heaven, you own this grave

where moss enters every crevice.

Your fingertips brush its rough headstone,

recalling that night above the sea,

full moon, your lover’s firm body

pressing you against the mirror,

the flesh of your cold back scorching his touch.

Old lovers a thousand

li

off

and dead long before you, you’re left

to maggots and phosphorescence.

When you crumble in a heap of golden dust

the wind whirls up with sand, you’ll sift down

on everything, on fields, mountains,

on this one day that’s forever.