Far down shore at the beach festival,
all the women are talking about women's matters:
whose cattle are pregnant; whose land needs to be fallowed;
who will take another husband. Way up in the house,
the men are talking about men's matters:
the location of the soul; the definition of time;
the responsibility for beauty.
I am in my tea house, wrapped in my silk quilt
with a pitcher of stiff, cold martinis.
On the beach, the band plays the old song:
"I must be the daughter of my mother's youngest husband."
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9 comments:
Clearly, one has to say something.
I’m leaning toward “thank you.”
Thank you.
No, Daniel, one has to say, "sure, I'll take a martini, Sarah; no, no olive for me, thanks."
Sarah needs to publish poetry.
a series on the lives of fictional ancient/modern Asian wives....
....Will I see you for tea on Wednesday?
We need a fourth for Tichu.
Enough of this
bloody spear-chucking -
I need a martini.
I want one
virgin; with no alcohol,
with none of the saltiness on the rim
as is found deep in Lady Fong's best silk hangings.
That's exactly what I want!
Guys I just made you each a pitcher of virgin martinis, but no olive.
The good news about virgin martinis is that you can take them on airplanes because they have no liquid.
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