Amanda Ryan
Through a Night Market in Xi’An
Over food carts parked by covered wagons,
holding beads and fans and clocks
and other precious bright things
the moon is a courtesan’s face
holding beads and fans and clocks
with her rice powder reflection
the moon is a courtesan’s face
singing down so many dynasties
in her rice powder reflection
the streets twinkle with litter and spittle
singing down so many dynasties
while food falls from chattering mouths and
streets twinkle with litter and spittle
as the manic trills of Peking opera is heard
while food falls from chattering mouths and
the aged willows sweep, heads bowed,
as the manic trills of Peking opera is heard
along with the loitering crowds
the aged willows sweep, heads bowed,
the neon red, red, red of electric signs streams
along with the loitering crowds
and other ephemeral bright things
the neon red, red, red of electric signs streams
over food carts parked by covered wagons.
Not Something to Keep
For Evangeline
My baby girl’s eyes are glass-bottomed
boats, there the sea, there the sky.
She floats from her room to where I am; over
the floorboards, across the billows of blocks
and rug into a riot of afternoon sun.
Gliding forward and back, scanning for treasure,
she catches a flash like a silver dollar fish
and darts for the ray that I, momentary lighthouse,
reflect off the gloss of a book cover. I cast
the gleam on walls and under couches,
down the hall, and then, close enough
for her to touch. She cups it with both hands
and spreads her fingers—bewildered to find that light
is not something to keep once found.
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This issue of Mezzo Cammin is dedicated to its Founder and Managing Editor for 15 years, Dr. Kim Bridgford (1959-2020). [Photo: Marion Ettinger].
The 2020 Poetry by the Sea conference was canceled due to COVID-19. The next conference is planned for May 25-28 2021.
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| MaryAnn Miller: And now we find ourselves in the midst of a pandemic, everything I’ve done seems small compared to the suffering happening in our country. Artists have been jammed up by these hard, hard times, unable to work, unable to think or write. Part of the creative life is getting used to fallow periods, expecting them to happen after I have given everything to a project, and the empty time when it’s over. After a terrifying period of fallowness, deeper than I had ever experienced, finally, I had a response to the unbearable sadness. We who remain live through these sad times and say our goodbyes so unwillingly. To those we know, like Kim Bridgford, to those we don’t know, like the millions of Covid-19 patients. I remain terribly sad, but I continue to work.
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