2 December 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 4
White Space
A strangeness is amiss. The soup is not puree
of stinging nettle. Where are all the wonderful
varmints? The sneezing turtles? The lace-thonged
fascists? This morning the road north was not paved
in mother-of-pearl. A horsefly did not catch
between my teeth and I did not feel its fluttering
echo along my meridians. Upon completing
the sun salutation, I looked up but did not see the sun
wearing a kinky kimono. Nothing tastes
like melted porcelain, nothing smells like history,
there are no songs written in circadian rhythm.
I have no Inuit friends, no one to teach me
to weave the fishgut parka I once saw behind glass
and fervently, fervently covet.
About the author:
Barbara Yien lives in San Francisco. Her work has been published in the Raven Chronicles and is forthcoming in MARGIE: The American Journal of Poetry.
For further reading:
See the complete list of work by Barbara Yien at 42opus. Browse the contents of 42opus Vol. 4, No. 4, where "White Space" ran on December 2, 2004. List other work with these same labels: poetry.
