In the Party Searching For Home
星期四 九月 10, 2009 9:43 pm
星期三下午同事聚会喝酒而作。
After homemade pancakes,
the host offers homemade drinks.
A crew of us tick our glasses and cheer.
Words bubble, words bounce,
words drift back home in the middle of
debating the process of wine making,
about what to grow and when to collect
the taste of sour, sweet or bitter dry.
The afternoon sun turns cool,
wasps circle lower after surviving last snow season.
We drink, we eat;
our skin shaded in the early autumn’s branches.
Our tongues slip into the hidden memory;
each tells one’s own aged tragedy,
I bite my lips trying reflecting
my ancestors,
but very little comes out
as if they have never existed.
So here, I am sunk in the love arm chair,
having little to offer, nothing to share.
my parents kept the past within themselves,
I was granted an intact silence.
I swallow the cherry wine,
sweet, and sweet; yet
the images of
my father’s sad eyes,
my mother’s crossed fingers
loom.
But I cannot fool myself
that I can over drink.
Like pushing snow ashes aside,
I shove my pain.
I ponder on miles to drive back
and riders with me,
those who kept saying on our way here,
too sad without friends around,
too bad far away from home.