Ian Lee

after kikka no chigiri (菊花の約)

​

on the ninth of september, you cut our red twine.

​

free my eclipsed eyes from these stitches. someday i’ll stop leaving you on delivered, the day when the

world decides to stop keeping us sewn. in this house the candles may not burn past dawn, yet your voice

still dances in the garden with the moonlight. tonight, i write you this letter. but you already knew it was

coming. the mooncakes are calcified and outside the white rabbit has decomposed. the swallows are in the

soup and the rain’s coagulated to my liking. watch closely, i promise this doesn’t last long: seppuku with

autumn’s teeth. our tatami now on the roof.

​

i’ll come over in a few. you’ll have to figure out my eta. don’t leave the front door open; i haven’t quite

made up my mind. maybe the necklace beneath your linen polo. maybe your brother’s stolen cologne. it’s

all your fault, you know. sprinkle some rice in the corner so i don’t go hungry. leave me a seat at the table.

we can sit down with your family and mourn the blossoms. when the sun rises and the sake’s gone dry,

leave a message after the tone. no, we can’t retie the twine. it’s far too late for that. you’ll have to ask the

chrysanthemums next year