WEBVTT

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It's called "Chinese Vase."

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I guess it's what they
call a persona poem.

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"Chinese Vase."

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Seats of red velvet as
dark as a bloodstain.

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I stand back in the
wings to watch the stage,

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where a bear on a
unicycle rides circles

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around a boy dressed
as a clown, who

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juggles two flaming torches.

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But the audience is
bored, and the noise

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of people stirring and
whispering grows louder.

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The boy notices me
watching and I nod.

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In a moment, the act closes
to perfunctory applause.

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Someone praises me
on the performance.

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Should I tell him he
lies, or let him know

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that I lie by thanking him?

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Quickly, I see to the
packing of costumes,

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hoping to avoid the
manager, but he stops me

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at the door, then grins into
my face before letting me go.

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That afternoon, I had been
waiting for him in his office.

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When he arrived, I was
standing over the fragments

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of a small Chinese vase.

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I explained there
was an accident,

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that I hadn't even touched it.

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"On the contrary," he said.

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"You broke it because
it was beautiful."

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Much later, I stare
from a train window

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as the landscape unrolls
under a full moon.

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I try to imagine
men and women asleep

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in those cottages, the smell
of their bodies, their legs

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entwined together,
but the landscape

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looks like a scene
painted on canvas

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and propped at the rear of the
stage my train rushes across.

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On the seat beside
me, the boy is asleep,

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covered by a red cloak.

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I decide to walk back
through the train.

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Here and there, I see a
man smoking or staring

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from a window, but most of
the compartments are dark.

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The bear's cage is back
in the baggage car,

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and when he sees me,
he grunts and pushes

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his nose between the bars.

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I search my pockets for
something to give him,

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but they're empty.

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Scratching his snout,
I think of the years

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spent with this animal,
crisscrossing the country

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so people can watch him dance.

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Taking a key, I unlock the
cage and let the bear out

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into the car.

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The bear lowers his
muzzle into my hand.

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I kneel down.

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I feel certain that my
face resembles his face,

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questioning and stupid.

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The side door of the
car is partly open,

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and I look out at the night sky.

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In the distance,
the lights of a town

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join together into one
great cluster of light,

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and I think, that is youth
seen from a solitary darkness

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of age, a place
where audiences cheer

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and the bears are all young.

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The door rattles
beneath my hand and I

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tell myself that I
must go back, must

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return the bear to his cage,
but, like a child allowed

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to stay up for
some special event,

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I beg myself for just another
minute as the lights seem

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to coalesce into memory.

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There is my marriage
and the birth of my son.

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There is a woman's
face, her hair

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held back by a black ribbon.

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I reach out to touch
the dead white cheek.

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The face rushes toward me as the
moon breaks from behind cloud.

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Light.

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Light speckles the landscape
like pieces of Chinese vase.

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I reach out my hand and
it seems I am flying.

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