Dish With Bamboo Leaves

Style of Ogata Kenzan 尾形乾山 (Japanese, 1663–1743)(?)

So I am trying to make sense of
this world; why my mother throws out

   anything that shows any sign of
   chipping; why she

insists on buying porcelain, or
keep the jagged

   blue-glazed pieces of hollowed clay.
   Like any traitor daughter I promised

to become rich and finally make
it out of that place. Saying absolve

   reminds me of the palm shadows
   thrown across the hot Californian

concrete, sandwiching, jarring,
captured butterflies baking in

   their own passions. Rain felt like
   absolution sometimes. October miracle,

drinking through skin like lotus root;
lips always chapped;

   our little rituals. I scratch her back for her
   every night; little jets of white;

red; dragging fingernails
across, gleaming sailboats from travel

   brochures in bloody bays;
   edens in sunrise, suns in

seas; girl practitioner, skin
horror vacui. The weather, she says.

   Needs a lot of lotion, cracking,
   damage; fine porcelain from

dream screwtape marriage; white and
blue maiden who bears her king on

   a mattress of fine porcelain.
   Threat of overthinking taken up

by Japanese kintsugi. Months repaired with
bits of urushi and gold. Exchange, take up any

   Japanese art. Self deformation. I am trying.
   The rot must precede rebirth.

The weather, pottery chips
easily; always more susceptible

   to hives and clinical paraphernalia under
   the sun. Five bucks and I bought the sun.

Fifty sheets of gold leaf to put in my sunscreen.
Mother’s cheeks glisten with tear streaks

   when the light hits in the right way. Like hot
   concrete on Ventura, after an October rain.

This poem was featured in Volume 2, Issue 2. Click here to explore other pieces from this issue.