A
Reed Boat
The
boat's tarred and shellacked to a water-repellent finish, just
sway-dancing with the current's ebb, light as a woman in love. It
pushes off again, cutting through lotus blossoms, sediment, guilt,
unforgivable darkness. Anything with half a root or heart could grow
in this lagoon.
There's
a pull against what's hidden from day, all that hurts. At dawn the
gatherer's shadow backstrokes across water, an instrument tuned for
gods and monsters in the murky kingdom below. Blossoms lean into his
fast hands, as if snapping themselves in half, giving in to some law.
Slow,
rhetorical light cuts between night and day, like nude bathers
embracing. The boat nudges deeper, with the ease of silverfish. I
know by his fluid movements, there isn't the shadow of a bomber on
the water any more, gliding like a dream of death. Mystery grows out
of the decay of dead things — each blossom a kiss from the unknown.
When I stand on the steps of Hanoi's West Lake Guest House, feeling that I am watched as I gaze at the boatman, it's hard to act like we're the only two left in the world. He balances on his boat of Ra, turning left and right, reaching through and beyond, as if the day is a woman he can pull into his arms.
When I stand on the steps of Hanoi's West Lake Guest House, feeling that I am watched as I gaze at the boatman, it's hard to act like we're the only two left in the world. He balances on his boat of Ra, turning left and right, reaching through and beyond, as if the day is a woman he can pull into his arms.
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