I wept over the grindstone,
The sparks flowing off into the night,
A passing goddess’s tresses made of stars,
I wept over the blade and the slit it would cut,
My enemy’s throat as he slept.
I pedaled the grindstone and thought about wrongs,
I remembered and ground the edge.

His room smelled of sleep,
Warm and heavy, breath deep and slow,
Stripes of moonlight across the bare leg,
Kicked free of sheet and quilt.
His beard grew quietly, his closed eyes
Roved beneath their lids, his hair
Tickled by the draft from the open door.

He was as a child, my child even, asleep
In beauty, face smooth, brow calm.
I sheathed the blade and bent over him,
Tugged the bedclothes free of their tangles,
Dragged them over that bare leg,
Watched him dream of an isle where
Sea breezes jostled fruit trees and where
He paid the natives to release the giant tortoises.

The next night I anchored in the midcourse of the river
A row of lanterns bobbing on their cords,
A lighted fairway to my floating dock,
Where lanterns marked the path to my house on the bank.
On the table are loaves and three kinds of tea,
Gingham napkins and china cups.

When he sets foot on the dock
The lantern light will flare and dim,
And as he passes the lanterns on the gravel path
Their light will flare and dim in my house.
I will hear his steps on the gravel
And his figure will fill the doorway.
     November 6th, 2006