Speak Yet Pause

you tell me between bites of wonton soup— the market is saturated. I could reach across this table, stroke the soft skin of your wrist. We pay the bill. Pretend not to care about our fortunes. A classic's a classic, I say, the parking lot flushed in sunset, & you turn to look at me one last time.

Let tigers. Kill them let bears. Kill them let tapeworms and roundworms and heartworms. Kill them let them. Kill each other let porcupine quills. Kill them let salmon poisoning. Kill them let them cut their tongue on a bone and bleed. To death let them. Freeze let them. Starve let them get. Rickets let them get. Arthritis let them have. Epilepsy let them get. Cataracts and go blind let them. Run themselves to death let eagles. Snatch them when young let a windblown seed. Bury itself in their inner ear destroying equilibrium let them have. Very good ears let them yes. Hear a cloud pass. Overhead.

To the Tune "Xi Jiang Yue: West River Moon"

It's the third time I pass by Pingshan Hall. Half of my life went by with a snap of the fingers. My teacher, Ouyang Xiu, has been dead for ten years. After ten years, his cursive calligraphy remains breathing on the walls like a dragon slaughtering a battalion of snakes. I am supposed to come write an elegy to memorialize his literary legacy. Instead, I insist on singing about the poplars and willows in the spring breeze. Don't say that whenever you turn back, everything becomes emptiness. What's ahead of you remains an illusion.

西江月·平山堂

三过平山堂下，半生弹指声中。 十年不见老仙翁，壁上龙蛇飞动。 欲吊文章太守，仍歌杨柳春风。 休言万事转头空，未转头时皆梦。

—Mahmoud Darwish, tr. Mohammed Shaheen

As you prepare your breakfast, think of others (do not forget the pigeon’s food).

As you conduct your wars, think of others (do not forget those who seek peace).

As you pay your water bill, think of others (those who are nursed by clouds).

As you return home, to your home, think of others (do not forget the people of the camps).

As you sleep and count the stars, think of others (those who have nowhere to sleep).

As you liberate yourself in metaphor, think of others (those who have lost the right to speak).

—Louise Gluck

— Brandon Melendez

& while I wait for my eyes to relearn open I [forgive] myself for the slow rise the deep ache in the crane of my neck from bowing down inside myself

I [forgive] the surrender the swollen knee the bruise on my rib shape & shade of an August sunrise I [forgive] the fence I could swear was the horizon or at least

a way out I [forgive] myself for imagining a way out is a place I could visit like a corner café or ex-lover’s thigh I [forgive] myself for loving

those who have harmed me for cooking them dinner & burning the rice forgetting to add pepper or make myself a plate I [forgive] myself for staying I [forgive]

myself for staying until I left my skin another blanket on the bed until the sound of a door opening turned each room into a reason to leave I counted each second

alone as a tiny victory until I lost count which is the only victory that matters please let healing be not a season but the body that still belongs to me & every day

I remember to buy bread to hide the keys beneath the window succulent or walk along the road dreaming of anything other than traffic is a day I get closer

to a future made better by how I live through it I [forgive] myself for failing today for falling back into bed & drawing the blinds give me time

I’ll get up I promise I know it doesn’t matter where I go every direction is forward I just have to get there I take a step & step naked into the shower the water

so cold I forget to breathe my body yearns to follow the pearls falling through the metal grate to become not quite a ghost but a shadow just out of frame I say no

(translation by Lena Khalaf Tuffaha)

In the north country now it is spring and there     is a certain celebration. The thrush has come home. He is shy and likes the     evening best, also the hour just before morning; in that blue and gritty light he     climbs to his branch, or smoothly sails there. It is okay to know only     one song if it is this one. Hear it rise and fall; the very elements of your soul     shiver nicely. What would spring be without it? Mostly frogs. But don’t worry, he

arrives, year after year, humble and obedient     and gorgeous. You listen and you know you could live a better life than you do, be     softer, kinder. And maybe this year you will be able to do it. Hear how his voice     rises and falls. There is no way to be sufficiently grateful for the gifts we are     given, no way to speak the Lord’s name often enough, though we do try, and

especially now, as that dappled breast     breathes in the pines and heaven’s windows in the north country, now spring     has come,     are opened wide.

Comrades, by hunger, poor housing and inadequate clothing I was made sick and removed from your ranks. I immediately took up the struggle for my recovery.

I declare to everyone who sees me The cause of my sickness I explicitly name the guilty ones.

At the same time I wage the struggle against the sickness funds Who seek to cheat me at every little turn. I wage the struggle from my sickbed.

I have informed myself about the liabilities of the hospital The daily abuses committed against sick members of the oppressed classes. I apply every resource which will help me Recover my good health. And so, although stricken and wounded I have not left your ranks. I will stick with you Until my last breath. I have no thought of yielding. I beg you Continue to depend on me.