Leaving Nanjing

by Lauren Tivey

In the massacre museum, eyes of the departed
stare down from a wall, some 300,000 faces—

these ghosts of 1937. There are jumbled skeletons
in the pit, a bell tolling, elderly Chinese roaming

dark halls, remembering. Rage inflames your guts,
and you know, no matter how justifiable, how

often it ravages you, everything depends on not
fanning it. Later, wrestling this onto the train,

jamming in with other passengers, you think
of Jews in their cattle cars to Auschwitz, that

final ride, of the evil which pounds its fist
into the black, white, brown, and yellow,

every damn day; how futile, ongoing this battle.
Riding along, you keen for the universe,

mourning us all, the killers and their dead,
adding your tears to that old ocean, choking

back terror, reminding yourself, breathe,
as thankfully, the train picks up speed.

Du Fu’s Cottage

by Lauren Tivey

Koi mouths pulse open and shut, clamoring
for handfuls of pellets with flexing aggression,
the water boiling with their bodies.  Chengdu,

suffocating under the blanket of summer; even
the lotus pond, in full flower, limp. Visitors shove
and glare, while you frown in the sun, a stoic

in stone, looking thirsty for wine.  The poems
under glass, with their rising moons, misty
mountains, quivering bamboo, are whispering:

join me behind the silk curtain, lower yourself
to me, let me undo your robes, to cultivate
the glistening flower, let us roll together,

slippery as fish in the stream of time, no here,
no there, just two floating in the space of heat,
flesh, language. And I carry you with me, to

the cool relief of a hotel, its shower, its bed;
the sheets twisting under us, our quaking,
our shivering, as the world bakes outside.

Magnolias

by Lauren Tivey

Budding in early April,
the bare-branched trees
are candelabras, their tips
flames of white, purple,
mauve, the rare yellow.

We are allowed to gush
over them, the event
of their opening cups,
their unfolding into
party gowns, as Étienne,

toiling in his arboretum
for the Empress Josephine,
must have wept with joy
over his hybrids, over
each individual angel.

Tonight, the maiden moon,
intoxicating scent;  I am
thinking of you, how seductive
and perilous the metaphor.
But it is spring, a time

of indulgence, and we are far
from France, under exotic skies,
flowers trumpeting their magic:
I cannot stop looking at them.
I cannot stop thinking of you.

Destination Unknown

by Lauren Tivey

Go
see the world
its hanging temples
colossal carvings
exotic blooms

the stars will look different
and the people will pray
to strange, stone-faced gods

dogs will be skittish, food
fiery, climates unpleasant
mountain passes, often blocked

chaos will reign
but I promise
you will never
want to turn back,
not once.

Rainy Season

by Lauren Tivey

There’s a sick part of you
that looks forward to it
every season, these weeks
of rain, their long romance,
their sodden caress, as if
you were a sad character
in an existential film, moving
through the vapors of a gray city
in your fedora, contemplating
some unrequited love, some
quiet angst.  You smoke,
haunt cafés, a Billie Holiday
soundtrack in your head,
and you sink in deeper
by the day, as it never stops.
It’s the danger of succumbing
that attracts you, of approaching
the edge and peering into that hole
you fought so hard to escape.
You watch it filling further
with each storm, a lovely bath
of depression, and you’re so
tired, wet, beaten; so susceptible.
But that’s too easy, and you’re
still, after all, a fighter.