what can you say about broken tiles or melted ice
These things are not possible to mend
Mending was never the goal
I have scars up and down my tongue
I have cuts up and down my heart
We wrote a pharmacopeia
We practiced what medicine we knew
From dust we came, to dust we shall return
The fire on the nerve
The dance in the bones
with this for his provision
A song sung for no one, echoing in an empty hall. The hollow feeling of living without resentment. The moment before the word appears. The coffee’s jolt, the singed smell of the grounds. A memory leached of bitterness, the meat of it ground into flour. The certainty of hunger and thirst. The broken ache. The fully-exhaled breath.
As always, the Chinese and English are here, pp. 64-65.