The night grows too quiet, dark.
My loom shudders
at the loss of stars and you. .
An unfinished poem by Lady Shigama,
who died suddenly, May, 871 A.D.
The walls are papered with sea grass
and sliding screens lend privacy
to each room.
Open then shut, open then shut, each shift
feels like someone’s breath
is being forced out of me.
A fear or sigh
from another time. A House
under this house. Centuries old.
I stand on the balcony
overlooking a wet park
where cherry blossoms splatter
the wide sash of dusk.
A wren sings in the branches
then a woman cries . I utter a poem
I’ve never read or spoken before —
a body of words
begging to end, to cast her long
shadow of goodbye.