|
Debbie Yee
Mabel
and Laureen
The moon regrets his father’s advice:
Take the nightshift.
Each evening, he dresses his luminous forehead
in linseed oil, drying powders,
the expanse of him bulging with reflection.
On his time, it is always difficult to get some shut-eye
the hours before, how the sun shines so brightly,
how there is no curtain wide enough to screen its
beating rays.
He takes out his bag lunch, night-in, night-out,
mouthful of apple juice and PB&J—the sweetest lunch
he has learned to make—some consolation; on his watch,
dog carts, diners are darkened, empty. We are not
open for you, moon, they seem to say. And so say the
surly cart vendors, the waitresses, like Mabel, like
Laureen.
How Mabel, Laureen stroll past him full-skirted,
primped, merrily, this beautiful, moon-lit evening,
arms in other men’s arms.
Notes to
Man, to Fish
To the Man:
The harbor fish take no guess
as to the glint at the water’s surface.
Is the dappled light mirage?
Are the succulent silver-skinned fry
answering the harbor’s siren call?
Or are the hominid creatures hell-bent
on extraction and loosening the mercury deposits,
unreeling their six a.m. yawn, a gust
of mammal scent betraying them?
To the Fish:
Take heart, wise cod. The clockwise
whirlpool given to trapments of your
gene pool—egg, seed, sun,
dust—withers tonight.
Light spun out, the water’s
dim time and a murky attitude
all adjust to the fisherman’s lightness.
Oar and rod quiet you.
|
|
|
Debbie Yee is a trusts and
estates attorney and poet. In 2007 she was a Kundiman Fellow for
Asian American poetry. Debbie's poems appear or are forthcoming in
Cheers to Muses: Contemporary Works by Asian American Women, 12
Ways (Kearny Street Workshop Press), Barn Owl Review, Shampoo
and OCHO #16. She is a graduate of U.C. Berkeley and Boalt
Hall School of Law. Visit
www.debbieyee.com. |
|
