“Three Demons”: Series III

translated by Ryan Choi

                                                           Snow; falls—

“ . . . what	                                   the snow

hath	                                           wrought . . .” 
	                                                   Christmas— 
	                                   	           time, in the pink

of a black		                           man’s palm.
	                                   	           Cake 
	                                                   in

our bellies,		                           beneath the

moon in	                                   the mackerel 

	                                   	           sky.
	                                                   Clear— 
	                                                   winter airport

noons		                                   travelers

passing		                                   through.
	                                                   Looking glass: a boy’s 
	                                   	           glass ears, as

he munches 
on plums

with		                                   friends.

	                                                   Man— 
	                                                   crumples and

vomits		                                   on the moon-

lit		                                           steppe—sleeps.

	                                                   Reflections in 
	                                                   the twilight,

dingy		                                   lake: the

shore—a		                              festival

	                                                   of stars. 
	                                                   Brisk, 
	                                                   spring

sunrise:		                                   sweat—we 
	                                                   break

salt		                                           crystals with

	                                                   picks.
	                                                   Last
	                                                   night with

the boys—	                                   peeking

into		                                   bamboo woods.
	                                                   Downpour— 
	                                                   skylarks,

shivering		                           as one—

	                                                   Ascend.

	                                                   To a 
	                                                   castle

defaced—by	                           frigid

	                                                   mud.
	                                                   Sick
	                                                   of spring,

sick of
seeing	                                           pine roots.


	                                                   Stars in 
	                                                   the rain—

her telegram	                           reads, 

“FORGIVE ME.”


	                                                   On the 
	                                                   plateau

my shadow,	                                   fringed with

sunflower	                                   shadows.
	                                                   Summer (of
	                                                   Life)—

	                                                   or nightingales,

volcanic	                                   ash-cape

swathing	                                   the earth.
	                                                   “ . . . holed up 
	                                                   with a fever,”

delirium—	                                   flies fucking 

	                                                   midair.

	                                                   In a mosquito 
	                                                   net—

blue:	                                           boy; a drawing

of		                                           fish.
	                                                   Summer school— 
	                                                   in

hiding, he	                                   cries 

frustrated
with		                                   arithmetic.
  
	                                                   Hiroshima (8/6). 
	                                                   “Day of 
	                                                   Mourning”—

sand-crusted

life buoys.
	                                                   On
	                                                   beach slopes

sun		                                           lights on

mushroom	                                   archipelagoes.
	                                                   AUTUMN RAIN—
	                                                   crabs

scrabbling	                                   along the sea-

bed:		                                   haven.

	                                                   Mobs—wordless, 
	                                                   daylong

bustle till	                                   sunset. 
	                                                   Faces to 
	                                                   the sky:

chestnuts	                                   green

against		                                   the black.
	                                                   Fall— 
	                                                   plowing

the fields,	                                   you dig

up your	                                          own shadow.

	                                                   At the Lakeshore
	                                                                Pavilion—

her hairpins,		                                 falling 
through lightning	           essence.

Read more from Issue 16.2.