"Five Drunken Manifestations of Zhong Kui" by Daniel Sundahl

(mid to late 20th century)

Look now, the ripe jungle invites the eye,Greens furious with shock, scarlet blossomsOf hemorrhage, the snowy egret roostingIn the spare ribs of that dead river tree.What does my wife slouch in boredom?The owner of the commissary says Pay your account!Pay!  Pay!  Pay! he writes in bright mangled words.My mother, in her old age, sits and waves her toes,Her square slab of unreflective face living nowWith no meaning.  Luck, she clucks, luck, luck, luck.A spirit sways, hunched like a cat above the gate.My daughter brings me lemon wedges, ice for my drink,Parsnips, beef on a blue plate, an ounce of tobacco.There's a strongbox hidden in the closet, I whisper;Let it be a mystery rising behind you in the wind.The bald heads of two Buddhist monks are seen.My window looks out over the cherry trees.Desire is a disease, Zhu Guaglie writes. Only GodCan grant your wish to live. A pig roots cabbage.I rise to go and latch the back door by myself.My son performs ritual music on a shell trumpet.My daughter brings me a steamer of rice, an egg,Inside of which is a fetal bird. I taste the beginningsOf bone, the potential heart. From the hayfield,Grassland plovers rise, flying inside their own hearts.Daniel James Sundahl is Professor in English and American Studies at Hillsdale College where he has taught for thirty years. He's married to Ellen, thirty-eight years; they have one well-behaved German Shepherd and three less well-behaved Mackerel cranky cats.