My mother learned the art of tangerine peeling
On the subway, while I listened to the shudder
Of train doors, curving away into a shaft of darkness.
Her thumbnail slit the wrinkled skin,
And the others heard a gentle rupture, turning to see the American Woman
Not understanding her sadness, only the sweetness
And the fragrant stain on her thumb.
The threads of fertility spill from the waist
Of the moon, a kimono sash swiftly falling to earth
To lie among solemn blades of grass,
Bony and chalk-colored, with only stillborn dreams.
And the moon stays in the eaves of the sky,
A pale wooden spool, inaccessible, inchoate.
Three years later an old woman, her hair
Faded silk woven with grains of rice,
Summons me to her doorway, counting my fortunes
On her joss stick fingers, imbued with a strange
Sense of perfection. She does not know my mother,
Of her subtle and tender warnings
Keeping me from the sultry scent of subway stations,
Scenes of technology and beauty. Now I sleep only
With the crackling of a radio, discordant
With the smooth night, and must be shown the revelation
Present in the peeling of fruit, the elusiveness of my mother.
