Reading Basho by Fern Light
- Reading Basho by Fern Light
When the winter chrysanthemums go, there’s nothing to write aboutbut radishes.
I am reading Basho, and the houseis so quiet my heartbeat paces itselfagainst the kitchen clock.
Tick and tock, we take turns spellinghiragana until even the fern decidesto give it a try.
Hello, こにちわ, she says, dipping a frondto the turtle in the aquarium, to the dogasleep on the rug.
Together we make the sign for green,and wonder if anyone has noticed.The violet seems attentive,
with that open face, simple blossom, as ifhe did not know the season. The glarefrom January snow
throbs against the window, and we signwhite, joy, happiness, lovely, きれい,and her favorite—the sun!
And then we talk about the predictable—the shade of afternoon, the dingy lightof evening
with just the saffron of an electric bulb,sad imitation of the real thing.And language, such a pitiful
translation of what we already know—there is no substitute for the world itself,for the immediacy
of sunlight, the nightly plunge into darkness,the motion of stars, the little griefat the end of every day. [End Page 83]
Cathryn Essinger is the author of three books of poetry: A Desk in the Elephant House, (Texas Tech University Press), My Dog Does Not Read Plato (Main Street Rag), and What I Know About Innocence (Main Street Rag). Her poems have appeared in Poetry, The Southern Review, Midwest Gothic, and The Alaska Quarterly, among others.
