Lauren Tivey

The pale birds of her hands
are fluttering over the strings
of the guzheng, a graceful poetry
that will live alongside the lotus,
misty mountains, flying eaves,
bamboo forests, and carved lions
in the peaceful boats of our souls
forever, delicate and sweet as children.

Those long fingers, born for rose petals,
porcelain teapots, calligraphy paper,
and silk, are plucking out High Mountain
Flowing Water, are powerful conductors
of dark storms, confident upon the bridge,
as in Three Variations of Plum Blossom,
or mellowed with reflection, as in
my favorite, Song of Fishermen
on a Homebound Boat During Sunset,
before the happy homeport of its coda.

She places our awkward, meaty palms
upon the rosewood, a twinkle guiding
our unsure and horrid attempts; we,
the ridiculous, sweaty and loud, big
as animals, attuned to electric guitars,
heavy drums, afraid of something
so pure, so fine—until her laughter
lifts us, like the chiming of bells.

His scarlet comb is quivering
like a hand waving goodbye,
and the showgirl iridescence
of his tail feathers—perfect
for a hat—shimmering;
a last act on the stage of dusk.

He looks funny upside down,
the knobby-gnarled talons
tied with string—a bow, even,
and the impeccably dressed woman,
fortyish, has her prized clutch
by the short hairs, so-to-speak.

Smart phone crooked to her ear,
she stops to shout Mandarin
at some poor schlub, dinner
preparations, and the bird
hangs there, cocking his head
at a pair of designer shoes.

Then they’re off with a cluck
and a click of heels, headed
for the kitchen and its cleaver,
our helpless, hapless, fine
feathered friend, just like
the rest of us, goners

bobbing along in our sunsets
and thinking oh shit oh shit oh
fuck, that cleaver always hovering
over our precious necks, and I feel
bad for him but I can’t blame her:
The poor bastard looks delicious.

There’s a sick part of you
that looks forward to it
every season, these weeks
of rain, their long romance,
their sodden caress, as if
you were a sad character
in an existential film, moving
through the vapors of a gray city
in your fedora, contemplating
some unrequited love, some
quiet angst. You smoke,
haunt cafés, a Billie Holiday
soundtrack in your head,
and you sink in deeper
by the day, as it never stops.
It’s the danger of succumbing
that attracts you, of approaching
the edge and peering into that hole
you fought so hard to escape.
You watch it filling further
with each storm, a lovely bath
of depression, and you’re so tired,
wet, beaten; so susceptible. But
that’s too easy, and you’re still,
after all, a fighter: You clutch
at colors, waiting for the water
to end, for a return of sunrises.

Budding in early April,
the bare-branched trees
are candelabras, their tips
flames of white, purple,
mauve, the rare yellow.

We are allowed to gush
over them, the event
of their opening cups,
their yielding into pretty
party gowns, as Étienne,

toiling in his arboretum
for the Empress Josephine,
must have wept with joy
over his hybrids, over
each individual angel.

Tonight, the maiden moon,
intoxicating scent; I am
thinking of you, how seductive
and perilous the metaphor.
But it is spring, a time

of indulgence, and we are far
from France, under exotic skies,
flowers trumpeting their magic:
I cannot stop looking at them,
thinking of how quickly they fade.