Mariko Kitakubo
 
 
                                                      

                                                              

                                                          a single grape
                                                          with an innocent gaze
                                                          begs my help
                                                          before it is crushed
                                                          into chardonnay
        

 
                                                          fire accelerating
                                                          their desperation,
                                                          surely they
                                                          were not given life
                                                          to become martyrs

                                          

                                                          when did I
                                                          start to drift away—
                                                          once more it is              
                                                          that season
                                                          of the knife-sharp moon
 
 
                                                          happily floating
                                                          in the lagoon, jelly fish
                                                          all unaware
                                                          of the name bestowed on them
                                                          by civilization
 
 
 
                                                          scattered on the floor
                                                          ice fragments
                                                          are melting—
                                                          mingled among them
                                                          I see chips of glass

 
 
                                                          I am stabbed
                                                          by your soft eyes
                                                          in this summer
                                                          of Lyre and ocean
                                                          singing in turn
                                                     


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