for May Nimura
Last night the oysters with their gills reminded me
of mushrooms, served on the half-shell, bathed
in their own juices, they had no eyes to taunt me,
Reminding me of May, plump with secrets, living in a fish
bowl fitted over her head, airless
as asthma, beveled at the neck, both tranquil
and sad, the keyhole of her chemise locked
against the embroidery at her breastbone; a child
at Tule Lake; she wanted to be seen,
she wanted not to be seen; wearing an orange kimono
she taught us the tea ceremony; wearing
the American smock of her split personality.
Rebellious, they took her away. The world
is full of contradictions, injustice and madness.
The fish of memory rise and fall, eyes bulging,
opening and closing their vivid, desperate mouths.
Jane Blue has been published recently in Pirene’s Fountain, FutureCycle, The Innisfree Poetry Journal, Stirring, and Avatar. In the past she has appeared in The Chattahoochee Review, The Antigonish Review, The Louisville Review, Quarter After Eight and quite a few other places, including anthologies, books and chapbooks. Her most recent book of poems, Blood Moon, was published by FutureCycle Press in 2014. She lives near the Sacramento River with her husband, Peter Rodman