Blind Date For Dinner
She is divorced from a wealthy japanese man.
Her first face on mine is new rain on broken stones.
She plucks wet dumplings to her mouth as dreams to a pool.
You're joking she's 33, I thought 27,
I thought beneath her dress, and upon her long neck,
I thought along the lines leaving her eyes,
guessing the joy and sad of their making,
the soft map of hours to secret rooms.
She is a waitress in tribeca and a librettist
and recovering from powder in her nose.
You're joking she's recovering, she is the one light of the restaurant.
I am the little boy you set blindly before her,
I am absolutely certain she will see shatter leaving my eyes.
Have i ever been recovering? I am using a shaking fork.
my tongue is raw, my words not done, my nails chewed.
In small moments of days, as now, as new steamed rice,
my grey stories fold upon themselves to whiteness.
Just look at the waves in her lips,
if only I were a dumpling.
t. j. m. may 97