ANCIENT BELL

The dead pig, moss-cloaked,

sleeps deep as an ancient bell.

Afloat, refusing burial,

it offers the river its rot.

A slim bird lands on the hide,

in its beak the gold fruit of the chinaberry.

In the church, greyhaired Father Huang

speaks Christ’s words on the cross:

“They know not what they do.”

The farm women listen, silent

as the hands of those gone overboard

clutching a boatside.