Peking Opera
My neighbor sings Peking opera, I can hear him
through the mesh
impersonating hero rebels,
his screen door letting through
the personification of butterfly trills,
semitones and arias smooth as pondwater skies,
stories of ministers riding donkeys and denouncing nobles,
the righteous opposing oppression and disposing tyrants.
One cannot become a master
without obsession.
What is it like to love a thing so misunderstood
and ignored as to be a cherishable,
what kind of life does he lead, so examined
as to be inscrutable,
foreign even to his neighbors?
He sings the crescent moon into my eye,
I see fake beards of yak hair, bright blues and reds
and deep dipping blacks above the bridge
of the nose, the insignia of a fierce tradition
and indomitable belief
that the just will have their rewards,
the evil their comeuppance.
Zhaojun emerges out of the northern frontier,
farmers join the revolt of the fishing folk!
Another neighbor is watching the Thunder and Pacers
go back and forth. I hear frenzy in the Chinese commentators
whose voices swell and quaver as if it’ll never matter
who watches, who cares.
How lucky you are!