June in Taipei, and: Van Gogh’s Other Ear, and: A River, Relentless

June in Taipei

That summer my air conditioning broke and I kissed all my friends onthe mouth. You took me to Vietnam and then started dating a local girlso I started dating someone who looked like you things were ok. We flewback to Taipei and drank warm Taiwan gold beers at the park near the711, getting on and off scooters near my house, in the mountains, at thesea, the heat always laying over everything and we were laughing andtalking about time machines while in our countries things burned. It washard to talk about the reasons. I wrote for an esl magazine in thecapital, so I knew the words locals were and were not taught.Xenophobia is above level six, outside vocabulary even for advancedlanguage learners and it’s not as though that explanation is enough butpeople say bùtóng is bùtóng. When my black friend and I walk throughthe night markets, the shūshu and āyí call out to me from behind theirstands Hello! Nǐ hăo! their children reaching out, trying to touch myblond hair while they stare at her braids and dark eyes and speakChinese quickly to their hands and to each other. But is that over-explaining? Say it simply, I learned. Don’t waste words. What is thepoint? Say it again. Say it with less. Say less. Later that summer, Istopped dating the guy who looked like you and almost stopped talkingcompletely, I wandered temple streets and thought I smelled cinnamonfor weeks, but that was my mother. You told me quite seriously never totrust anyone who drove with a hat on but that was your father. I stayedsilent, I tried to see. Out every window unfolded passing highways torailways to dirt roads, raised cliff ridges stretching to coast and I studiedthe miles from peak to sky, searching for what they could mean.

Van Gogh’s Other Ear

The smallest noise human ears can hear iscalled a picowatt, relative tothe sound of an insect flying three meters awaywhen the movement of wings is measuredas an isolated stimulus, a sensation to bedefined in its apartness, but let usconsider the apart from,senses splitting spores and spheres;a moth beating light, ginsweating in glass, ice clink to teeth.Pour me one and I’ll name you the namesmalleus, anvil, stapes, theedges of bone ruffled and whiteas an egg in the pan. Pour meanother and leave the cigarettein the ashtray, there is no eggbone or breakfast. Come home with meI’ll show you the halved peach I keepin a jar, tell you it is van Gogh’s ear and put it to thefloorboards. I swear to you it can hear constellations collapsingtilting stars and planets above wheat fields in snow.These are the sunflowers. The uneasiness of hands,night crackling against glass, the loudest noisehuman ears can hear before deafness;140 decibels, a thousand bouquets, petalsenflamed, pollen on jeans. Stop talking of silence, thisis not absence. Press your fingers hard to your eyelids,this empty room will burn more brightlyagainst the iris with the lights off.

A River, Relentless

When summer’s eyes close themoon opens its mouth I wouldbrush its pale-pocked lipsdo the things I’ve seen on screens butfor the ash on my fingersthe spirits filling this fieldYou’d think the gleam on theexposed grain would be enoughtender enoughbut all of my ghosts are out andnone of them care to haunt me.that girl they say and nothing moreor maybe that’s my mother or grandmother orevery matriarch who has ever known mehow will you spendthe eves you collectthey don’t ask and I do not answerI’m wading into the river at nightfeeling the dragof the current on my thighs...