Inside the Bell Flowers
         —after Shuji Terayama


Brown wings for a wreath. For slumber at sea or mirage of an inverted sun. The clouds of her dirge cleanse me of my shame: hymns unsung, torches lit with scriptures on the rocks, homes for orphans. Her steps cutting a silver trail across the soil. A mercury fire that stirs, shadow raging its blade in the leaves.

The winter axe plots my fall out of her twilight, stark coma, etchings of youth in a home of lycrois corpses. Wake me. Free me. A skylark about to take flight. With blood in my eyes.


         —after Shuji Terayama


Burnt by a bullet piercing through sunlight,
                   I am cluster amaryllis
blooming red along the cliffs—
                   a song of hope executing itself.


Wong, N. (n.d.). Nicolette Wong – Poetry. Retrieved February 18, 2015, from


wraps the memories of her in sawdust snow. Lips to wet asphalt, gold pins for tears on the statues across the altar. The gods have always been waiting. The sum of wind and divine will is a hollow mirror. In the mountain. At the flick of his wrist. Before the wrong train and the percussions in metal. For another man she raced through infinite wounds and fists in a monsoon forest. Hands tied to her lover’s for a dance, a roulette of paper cranes exploding across the sky. Cascaded into the sea of black eyelashes. How they shutter around the glass bottom boat as he throws the frayed ropes. This is the country of an older name for her departure, an eternal maze he would never exit. This his reward for abandoning the train.

Wong, N. (n.d.). September 2012 nicolette wong. Retrieved February 17, 2015, from


The Glassblower

nurses the fragments of a thousand skies in him. Furnace for the nearest sun, ornaments in the vacuum of memoirs. Tainted flesh of his mother, her mother, and the mothers before them swept into cobalt. Must wash in sand. Melt puddles flow yellow. He has carried the hollow through countless deserts. When his childhood friends morphed into characters of tombstone chants. The crows cry, pierce burning films to stir baubled lies. To forge in silence. To trade lips for the glob of glass around a metal pipe. His beloved are paper-thin when he blows into the free end. Green tint from copper. Scores the glass into wings of hummingbirds with a chisel. Breaks it apart. His is the shape of all souls.


(The Doll’s Festival)

Sleep tight, my daughter, in the sheaf boat floating down the river. Remember the whirring spring on the day you were born, and my warmth around you rising on its crests. To guard your breakage I buried my comb in the paddy, safe from the country’s razing yaw. There is no room for pliancy, levitated love in a girlhood laid in soil. Give me back my land. Give me back my youthful face, my tambourine shaking frost and wind in our house.

Your cadence scries only the new moon.
I’m alone again. I’m the doll shrine
floating behind you in crimson water.

Your talisman will breed frantically across the field. Songs of pathos. Songs of veils. Songs of blood chestnuts blooming over the Girls’ Day parade. You will be dressed in the prettiest kimono, riding a white goat, your laughter a filigree leaf. Tell me, what do you see in the pastoral hide and seek? For your inheritance I have nothing but slats in every part of my body. You have left me. Come back, little bird. Let me speak to you one more time.


You build libraries, cities, or just a treehouse with your name engraved on the trap door that opens when you jump out of your dreams. From your assorted maps I steal broken sheets of skies. As if your wastelands were smoke: the pouring words, gaping-holes into Las Vegas shadows. For adventure you stride the musk so hot of night, cyclones lapsed in whispers, faces drawn in water like thick moss on branches. You cannot be stopped. The rooms are orphans you fumble. Adamant. Nameless. The bottle caps in sawdust. In your pockets.


I cleave by the window-screen, waiting for the wind that blinds. Similitude of fear, or my dark veracities. The hand to lift through the flint of rain, alight in your poems’ nocturnal rings. The dowsing world unbinds, in conjunction, words seeping through the skin as pith. Writing, as only you can write, of how your innocence has come to a vainglorious end. I am tonight’s pantomime conductor. I am the fresco of your atlas, lands receding into an allotted sun. Tatter your past on my inked arm. In another life, you would be any kind of sinner.

Wong, N. (n.d.). Nicolette Wong. Retrieved February 17, 2015, from


I said perhaps Patagonia, and pictured
a peninsula, wide enough
for a couple of ladderback chairs
to wobble on at high tide. I thought

of us in breathless cold, facing
a horizon round as a coin, looped
in a cat’s cradle strung by gulls
from sea to sun. I planned to wait

till the waves had bored themselves
to sleep, till the last clinging barnacles,
growing worried in the hush,
had paddled off in tiny coracles, till

those restless birds, your actor’s hands,
had dropped slack into your lap,
until you’d turned, at last, to me.
When I spoke of Patagonia, I meant

skies all empty aching blue. I meant
years. I meant all of them with you.