The Other Rebel
after your last words,
“you cannot have us both.”
Your open lips on my chest—what I heard last,
what stayed the longest, second only to white noise
that began when you left, fever-faced, for your
cherry blossom garden, an island of impermanence,
Mono no aware, where nothing lasts. Transience
is not a language hearts speak. Mine was taught
to speak longevity, the why not try and try again.
How I ended up with the two of you was not the
work of desire, but of truths unfolding inside me
more than yours, pages of a red red rose revealing
how three hearts could bloom from rebellions.
That night, I stayed at my only spot to take root,
learning to find essence in the ephemera, how
cherry blossoms bloom together only to die at once.
*Mo no aware is a Japanese term used to describe the cultural idea of impermanence, especially
one associated with cherry blossoms.
The Other Rebel
para Victor
I don’t know what your departure taught me.
Our last night was no tea ceremony. (I didn’t
know the essence of tea until a decade later.)
My heart lost its tongue after a series of silence
interlocking like columns of a wooden pagoda.
I had no wood left, no pillar to keep me still
and learn from moments, what we were
always taught: forgive, distance, undo.
It was silence I swallowed when you left.
A Karakuri doll that only turned around as soon
as you lifted its weight, facing a wall until
it’s wound again for tea time. I imagine
how many gods you will meet. Benzaiten,
flowing, flowing from the past, Idaten, speeding
into the future. Kami in everything we touched.
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