Mariko Kitakubo



                                                          cutting my foot
                                                          on a tree-root
                                                          I felt
                                                          the desolation of Descartes
                                                          slowly slide into me

                                                          we won't know
                                                          if it's benign
                                                          till we operate--
                                                          I'm nodding as if
                                                          this isn't about me

                                                          high up
                                                          in the bare tree
                                                          winter has come
                                                          bringing with it
                                                          letters for the deceased

                                                          the sounds
                                                          of a cat grooming itself
                                                          in Tunisia
                                                          all the cobble-stones
                                                          are on fire with sunset
                                                          how small
                                                          I really am
                                                          here between
                                                          potato field
                                                          and the wide sky

                                                          maybe it's better
                                                          not to know the depth
                                                          of her wounds--
                                                          tranquilly I ask
                                                          how many sugar lumps?