Taigu, China 2007
First, draw the world.
But the world
erased of water. Lake-bottom,
now a plateau. Riverbed, arc
of dust. And where ocean should be,
a swaying tapestry of corn.
To make TH, I tell my students,
the tongue must curl
and leave the mouth. Think this
through: northern earth’s
weather. Repeat until tongues
harden, parch like the valley
of Ezekiel. Voices elbow
towards a cadence. Words
hit words, pile like skeletons.
And all day, the air’s gānzào—
so dry, I can’t feel what is it you might
call God. As if to say
it’s humid were a synonym
for knowing the hand,
the sweaty familiar hold of it, lines
that are rivers. No, my skin splits
in absence. We ride
on, bikes veiled
in thirsty powder. Gobi wind
takes the leaves, leaves us still,
and wanting—what
was it? A forgotten word
tastes like
the barrel’s bottom.
Frantic to remember,
all I know is to head towards
the market, in hopes
someone might have it
in their cracking hand,
so I can ask, what is this?
But here, without
the word, I’ve forgotten
also, the shape of it
and what else is there
to recall now, in this place
where every color is living
the life of another? I buy oranges
but they’re green. Greens, they’re
prisms, spun in oil. Egg yolk,
something blue. My hair, plain
auburn, students calling
gold. I told the vendor,
I need, I was needing,
or was it? Was it
wanting,
either, the same character
yao. 要 Open your mouth,
let the wind out,
and then, on closing, find it
empty. The dry mouth
that first said bring me
the cup, the mouth
that also said
the sky’s backwashed
in dirty watercolor
is now searching for
the bright word, waiting
in the dust. If Ezekiel wants
the wheel, it’s just
the cigarette-sun, setting on China,
neon on inhale, dark by the time
the lips separate again. Think this
through: northern earth,
speak. An echo is just
a voice, just the bones,
your own. Write a name
in loess, watch it leave
you for the dark
spine of Atlas.
Cup your hands, and wait.
But do not ask for rain.
