The khimarred woman 
sings a five note lament 
through cellophane, 
Paleolithic stone, 
a labyrinth of drywall, 
 [bad word] coils 
Mississippi mud and the blood 
in her throat 
While the ghosts in Aokighara 
the bones of my father 
the unfed mice on the sewer grate 
They hear her notes 
as one hears a memory 

It's like a flare, they think 
Not the flare itself, 
but the trail of magnesium 
all that drags after the glow 
the echo, a disembodied wish 
futile as it may seem 

a shattered lullaby 
for the kaki tree 
who peers through heartwood 
to watch the farmers' hands 
fetch her mango hearts, fifty children 
from her languid limbs 
their bodies tossed into 
guillotine baskets 
her leaves curl to their touch 

It is too much to ask of any 
one being. 
The wind whirls consensus 

Amidst the feeble proclamations 
that “Happiness is state of mind,” 
I incant in the basement 
ancient prayers of survival. 
Resuscitate, rejuvenate me 
I was just a kid, fumbling through the dark woods 
Witnessing the plumes of smoke 
from the [bad word] laboring in the yardhouse 

Saliva to straw 
Paper and grass to wire 
I've thatched a home in the [bad word] 
in the thicket where 
I gnaw on my hands 
and my back's against the morning dew 
I hear the eulogizing orioles 
singing from their choral tome 
soothing these baptismal lashes 
in a canopy of pines where I wish 
the starlings could carry us off.