a ghost is hanging
from the doorpost
of our past—

The bullet has almost entered the brain:
I can feel it sprint down the gunbarrel
rolling each bevel around like a hoop

They called it a landslide as though 
everything shifted and the weak 
and strong alike were buried alive.

This cemetery is no haven, 
old Jews waving at you 
offering Kaddish for a few dollars, 

The Yangtze River in China lost its nerve
and wanted vengeance.

  The wind is against us and the ash of war covers the earth. We see our spirit flash on a razor blade, a helmet’s curve. The brackish springs of autumn salt our wounds. 

We smile at each other
and I lean back against the wicker couch.
How does it feel to be dead? I say.

I didn’t write Etsuko,
I sliced her open.
She was carmine inside