JAPAN

kuntzl@heronet.ne.jp

Iris

So much unfolding
Of many layered petals,
A woman, hair wind-swelled, disrobing.

In still life, each looks sea swept
Bending with the heaviness of its own beauty.
To be in awe of such stature,

Leaning from a dragon patterned vase,
Demanding my complete attention,
All purple and pearl

Countless Concubines
                For Ryan and Noah

Hunched under oil scented tarps, protected against damp drizzle,
a boatman rows us down the Perfume River in Hue,
we turn a cold shoulder from vendors on mossy banks hawking brass idols.

Only eleven, you tire of dog-eared tour books, museums and motorless
boats, playing your game boy you wish for wonders
of everything battery operated.

We reach the tomb of Tu Duc, the Vietnamese Emperor,
who had 104 wives and countless concubines.
His tea made from drops of dew,
condensed overnight on the leaves of lotus plants,
yet, imperial luxury brought him no sons.

None like you. who sit next to me in complaint
of yet another tomb, another hundred steps to climb.
I tell you all monuments are built because of love
made of rock and surrounded by walls to protect.

In downpour we embark, mother and son,
up frangipani-lined paths to Tu Duc's tomb.
It is then, you relish, as only boy in awe of kings
and their gluttony of passion can,
the thought of an emperor reclining on high
stone columns fanned by countless concubines.

And, I feel lucky not to crave kings and concubines,
but just to relish as a mother can, in countless love.

Losing Buddha
                            for Noah

The tiny bronze figurine
around your neck, set you
apart from other boys
in their Jordan jerseys
and FUBU caps.

Lands with jasmine bloom,
gilded temples, myriad markets,
buzzards and beggars,
your peripheral vision
of life beyond schoolyard hoops.

But, only twelve,
and so much a boy,
somewhere, between a wave,
or scrambling for a ball under webbed porches,
Buddha fell from a tenuous link.

You turned the chain waiting
for the plump seated icon to slide
down the silver loop, as it had done for years,
when you were nervous, bored,
or peeking through glass panes of greed,
those foggy windows Buddha speaks of.

You worried what this loss would mean
and the haunt of obsessions fastened
like a clasp around your neck.

I did what mothers looking for the lost are known to do,

turned mattresses on their sides,
swept dust from corner crevices,
pinched pockets of folded jeans,
blindly stuck my hands in deep paunches of cushions,
and retraced steps.

But, Buddha scorns attachments
and weary of  the search,
you turned attentions to the piracies of  Pokemon.,
as I continued to look,
not easily letting go
of what has been carried for so long.

Gorgeous Girls

The resplendent French girl
threw up in class last night.
Everyone forgave her,
offered to copy lecture notes,
lend her a mobile phone,
e-mail her mother in France.

I imagined her 200 pounds,
with pitted cheeks, and a bowl haircut,
her vomit would have flurried
chairs from desks,
opened winter windows wide.

When I dared to look at the gorgeous girl's vomit,
it was just that--
dainty, pearled balls of rice, almost edibly white

Having been a gorgeous girl once,
I know how it is to get away with everything,

how the air parts with the scent of jasmine
and allows the swallow's song to linger,
commanding  all  that gorgeous girls need
to return to their seats and pretend
that nothing has happened.

Cleaning the Coffee Maker
                      for Steven

I don't drink it,

in the morning brown Rorschachs
splotch the sides where the glass pot perks unevenly---
one an angry bear,  weeds on a mountain,
or just a hum-drum blot of brown
crusted over silver plating,
all that needs to be scrubbed to shine,

I refuse to clean it,

You need a fine grind of Kona to wake.
Methodically, you reach for the filled mug
when you want to reach for a pen,
a pick, a hoe, or my body.
By dusk, I can count the cups
by smudges along chrome.

It is then,

after a day of bad weather,
a shedding dog, an empty mailbox,
the bellied pot taunts me,
splendid in its Rorschach dress,
and I point out brown water rings
on cream-colored Formica,
grinds cast along an aluminum trim.

Maneuvering the sponge through crevices,
you  scrub the brown ovals of uneven forms,
never sure whether you are wiping away
the beautiful woman or the old hag.

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