by Jiang Pu
I want to bring you a heady symphony of roses,
lavender and golden poppies as April unfolds
into giant butterfly wings in my yard, but
I can’t sing; this morning my throat is choked
like the Strait of Hormuz.
I’m self-schooled in the art of drop-cover-shelter
from the bombing news, but o you wise one,
teach me: how do I turn off this glaring pain
of my brothers and sisters constantly bombing
each other? And how do I forgive
the twin lakes of my eyes for shedding
useless tears—so useless they can’t even feed
into desert desalination plants spared
by thirsty missiles? My tears sting more
than the bitter horseradish a friend brings
on a Passover. She teaches me to dip it
into a nut paste, which is sweet, which,
she says, tastes like
hope. Maybe it’s time for a few Medjool Dates
grown from the cradle-land that I’ve visited
so many times in spirit but never once
in body, so that I keep its soil and water
inside me to nourish a prayer for peace, so that
when I open my door to the unstoppable
spring outside, I can welcome Rumi’s sun
and other honored guests to visit
me today besides pain.