Placed on the garden path’s uneven stones
the bamboo stool tips slightly to one side.
Close to my ear, I hear the squeaking tones
of scissor blades. Sometimes I catch the eyes
of several young boys seated at my feet
who stare in blank amazement, unabashed.
They know already that I sleep, and eat—
but here is evidence far more concrete,
more intimately human.
I shower, check the mirror, step outside
to hang my towel in the sun. The last
few fallen locks of my own hair blow by—
re-animated by a passing breeze,
mixed with mimosa and hibiscus leaves.
About the author
R. Nemo Hill lives in New York City, but travels extensively in Southeast Asia each year, where his experiences have run the gamut from… Read the full bio
Issue 03 · February 2009
Table of contents
- From the editors
- Postcard Prose
- Travel Notes
More from The Journal
By Henry Walters
We followed her in, a stray, the fattest & first, the temple cat./
In a niche by the altar she crouches, watches them come: the/
mad parade we’d wanted, this troupe of heretics — the ass,/
alpaca, gyrfalcon — unbroken line of celebrants, creatures ...
By Ksenia Rychtycka
Mother comes to me as I’m making honey cake, /
measuring out sugar then whipping eggs. /
Never mind that Mother left this earth /
eighteen months earlier...
By Rimas Uzgiris
The trolley bus won’t go. /
Its reins have fallen from the wires.
By Maryann Corbett
I miss things: swooping, diving, passionate voices/
in several African tongues, so far beyond me/
they might as well have beamed from the constellations.
By Pui Ying Wong
Here’s the river I stepped in more than twice.// I can’t see them but I know the boats/
are going by in the sturdy fog...
By R L Swihart
And now you explore the hidden pockets and come up/
with a City Guide (in English) you picked up in Amsterdam./
Why did I keep that? Where were we going? But she’s/
not there to answer
Read more Poetry or Postcard Prose