Crane Story

I

Once the river’s gone it’s all gone.

The rice grew so quietly there and when the fog stirred

the stones turned over and slept. I never thought I’d find you there.

Your bones like crane bones. Nothing needed an answer

—and the ghosts, undisturbed.

Ii

You threw stones at the sky. You washed my dishes.

You stood in the river, waist-deep your bones like crane bones.

You fit your hips against mine. You measured the stalks in the fields.

You measured the rise of the floods. You loved me longer than the river

and deeper than the rice.

Iii

I woke to the rain and slept to the frogs. And the metal song of your knife

fold-unfold, unfold and fold. Smoke on the river, smoke in the hills.

A girl jumped off the mountain and we can see her ghost, you say, when it rains.

Holding me holding me dishes unwashed

your crane-cheek against my smooth one. And I cried when I had to leave you.

I didn’t know I would.

Iv

Shadow by the river now. Nightfall in the grass.

And they say that you can hear her   calling calling

from the other side of the sky. Once it’s gone it’s all gone.

They burned the rice every autumn— I still go there in my sleep.

Your cheekbones under my blind touch and smoke rising into the sky.