Songhua River

Is history a river or a boat?
The sandbags along Songhua River
made my mother remember.
She almost drowned a lifetime ago. 
Water and memory connect
me to her. When I swim I believe 
in the possibility.
She did not know how
to swim. We are all made 
to float. Do you believe it?
Our mothers are keepers
of creation myths. They share
secrets and perform magic.
They tell us they drowned
so we might walk on water.
Lately the mother in me longs
to build a boat with driftwood
washed up onto the beach 
after a storm.

 The Buzz Around Murakami

The mosquito steps out of a puddle 
and goes looking for a bar where there
is blood to drink.
Some people are marked 
as targets. Watch out for
a loner in the corner. 
It could be Murakami
thinking about writing 
his next novel in Twi.
Does he need immunity or 
go on a walkabout?
Murakami is waiting for his translator.
It’s a slow night. His beer is warm.
There are people who keep
waiting until they receive a sign
and too many coincidences 
collide.
Murakami is waiting.
Every bookstore is waiting.

Glasses and Overdue Books

I remove my glasses for my lover.
It's another beginning for us. 
This week we’ve been reading Until August by Marquez.
We had a difficult summer last year.
We kept wanting to return our marriages 
with our overdue books. 
We accumulate our fines as if they were
umbrellas in the lost & found.

Writing is like Parking a Poem

Let’s change this first line because it has a flat tire.
I left the spare line on the time machine.
Maybe my best friend Ai will find it for me.
Ai is love in Japanese.
Speak Japanese to me.

Let’s change the first line of this poem
and push the car.
I overheard the producers discussing
how to place two automobiles on the stage. 
If we continue to drive or write this poem 
we need to know where we are going.

Why is there a period at the end of each line? 
Why a garage after each stanza?
I think we are stuck in the same intersection. 
The lights keep changing but we are holding
onto the period. 

I want to know where we are going but
I am afraid to set the navigation system. 
Does the rearview mirror have an expiration date?
The road ahead is free verse.
Never mistake a police officer for a literary critic.
I see the time machine going down the road. 
Should we catch it and get the spare line back?
Only if you want to call what we do is experimental.

One of us must be Marco Polo

Lately, so many shooting stars
hitting a place in your heart. 
My hands live in another city.
The scale is all wrong on our map. 
One of us must be Marco Polo.

Our conversation is echoing 
in invisible cities says Italo Calvino. 
One winter night I saw him traveling 
alone carrying three books.
If our story is inside another story
will we find each other?

There are sacred texts that only hold
blank pages.
Let us secretly chant our mantra.
A sandalwood scented candle is burning.

Wheelchair

There is a lonely wheelchair 
in the corner.
It had many lives. 
So many stories it could tell.
An aunt always skirted around it
as if it was contagious. 
Small nephews had problems 
pushing it across streets.
A daughter with cerebral palsy
rode it everywhere. 
Strokes will find their share of riders.
An array of wheelchairs is waiting 
by the gate at airports, 
inside the hospital’s automatic doors
and next to the supermarket cart bay.
It’s sad wheelchairs 
have yet to master steps 
and stairways.
So much depends on the wheelchair. 

© 2024 Miho Kinnas & E. Ethelbert Miller