Poems by Ye Mimi

Sunlight’s Dotted Line

the pace of the snapshot is bovine/ black dogs bend an ear the whole a.m.
a solitary someone at the rim of the world is gleaning something
nearby summits/ structure without rhyme or reason
lilies sing the spring presumptive/ coral tree blossoms sicken abreast
women refurbish their skin on sandy beaches/ a plumped up oil drum
we on sunlight’s dotted line
hold open our palms/ to read a word you cannot see the end of
practice focusing on facing the sea/ facing off a score of smiles
practice your haiku by ear
slope of saw-tooth grass/ bevy of ringdoves
floating conversation/ beer
later, from his pocket, he fumbles up a lump of ice
subliming as vapor
and warm time
thus she’s like a flight of driftwood/ arriving at the stern
rain/ when it falls
they merge, become one/ to help the briny waves turn the page

His Days Go by the Way Her Years

he smells like bottled root beer
her pie in the sky allays his hunger and his days go by the way her years
he is a lonely plural
her door-latch is sour or sore
the au contraire of plentiful is he
(won’t they help her build her Tower of Basil?)
she hairs his chest he heartens her sweetheart
one day every living soul will turn to soil
he ocean fleets a vessel
she mountain passes a night
Wednesday likes the rain
by rain were they woven into angelfish
eyes unfolded into riddles
yet he steals beneath her iron skin
and leaning on the chair-back of time
gradually invents a kind of knock

the more he is the sun the more she is the moon

A Blind Date Makes Him Dilapidate

The backdrop was a salty crisp deep green. Their gloom wells into one accord. Some
cherries turn to glass.

Her right arm smacks of soda cracker. Proliferating fingerprints pule in the air.

Now that Spring’s propped up and filled to bursting \ they’re plump in the middle of their
first blind date \ he clasps a clap of thunder in his hand \ she closes her eyes like a vacant
space \ someone is playing music \ someone is carrying a caramel latté \ someone is
delivering the night \ he deftly pinches up a purplish white thunderprint \ she’s come to
feel that solitude’s so beautiful so savory \ that she decides to prolong him in his
dilapidated state

Her Perspire-y Left Hand Was Semi-Colon-y

That was the 7th day／she was savoring her morning meal on the edge of the islet＼
             the sun was    growly／naupaka
shrubs were like a line of slipshod quotation marks and brackets＼her perspire-y left
             hand was semi-colon-y
the eyes of those certified ㊣ spotted deer no matter how you put it are love are
             warm and genial seas＼so ease
             -ily／wrung dry
crisp time like apple strudel／people are forever cutting the sheep from the cattle 

everybody needs a Sleeping Beauty and a pug
just like a harbor needs a boat／a hot spring a boiled egg
the prison warden hands out cuffs and locks

coral loiters in the place from whence it came waiting for the ocean to come back
her skin soaks into a kind of solar black＼the sky is looking-glass blue／thatch screw
              pine a deaf and dumb green
＼every one of the □ □／could find themselves sluiced by the □ □ □ into a
            watermelon frappe of a summer season
midday over／the □ □ fairly often become fertile

in／the fingerprint of the wind she stumbles on 3 salt＼clumps

her absent-minded look is the Grotto of Guanyin after it grows dark

— translated by Steve Bradbury

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