Current
Issue
Volume 12.2
Ha Kiet Chau
—
Fènghuángl
Pages and pages of poems drift across centuries
of thunder, descend in Du Fu’s lap.
Puffing opium by a peach tree, he torches my couplets,
engulfs my words in flames.
At the Great Wall, we split a thousand-year-old
preserved egg, banter in verse about peculiar weather:
ethereal snow and windswept autumns
as pages and pages of syntax swirl, desire butterflying,
水 and 火 burning timelines and seasons
shrouded in perpetual darkness.
Still, I bloom, I moonlit, and when he refers to me
as his rare phoenix, his Fènghuáng—so smitten,
I die not in heaven, but in Zen, in fifth dimension,
wings flowering over Tang Dynasty.
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