A Debt Repaid

As you sit here describing to me all the cities of your journeys
The one with a crescent moon hanging on a chain of luna moths
beating wings bewitched with sight from the children gone blind

I swear your face dripped into your tea and a storm of steam gathered 
in the mug from which chrysanthemum serpents peeked out and 
down, plummeting to its cylindrical depths

With your furry brows raising terribly, each “sst” and “kree” shot through the ceiling
and from boards overhead fell dust from the holy foot of a Jain
stark naked in the final years of his pleasure-less life  

Wherein he witnessed an apricot fall to the ground, tempting, about to burst with juices
yet upon inspection housed a caterpillar, munching and sleeping in alteration
and from that day he vowed to consume nothing apart from the pearl of… 
peacock tears 

Which I bottled for you in a browning jar, about the size of a thimble
and produce before you like a miscarried first born breathed back to ruddy life. 
A hush like a meadow invaded by a hunter falls across my living room

As I hand to you the only cure for the accursed Kuru disease that you contracted 
on a blood moon night, grunting and slurping the brains of our captor 
from between clenched knees in the wet forest of New Guinea

Ode to Sumō

– profile of the greatest sumō wrestler to date – Hakuhō Shō.

       Any floating pillar god,
         any cold black turtle
          would bless the earthen dōhyo
            supposing the rikishi are noble

             Suppose it is January
             Suppose no city but Tokyo
            Supposing that the yokozuna
                 are able-bodied and willing

                  As well as the ozeki,
                    supposing Asanoyama, Enho, Ishiura,
                     and every stable master
                       were gathered all together

                         Suppose a sea of sponsors,
                         Waving many colored banners,
                          and supposing that the gyōgi
                          looks like a pile of grapes

                          Supposing strong water,
                        clean salt and clenched fists,
                       Suppose a rush of bodies, 
                      a clap of thunder

                   Sumō!

Chime Lama is a Tibetan American writer, translator and multi-genre artist based in New York City. She holds an MA in Divinity from the University of Chicago and is pursuing an MFA in Poetry at Brooklyn College. She is currently Co-Editor in Chief of the Brooklyn Review and the Poetry Editor of Yeshe: A Journal of Tibetan Literature, Arts and Humanities. Experimenting with form and technique, she creates visually dynamic literary art. Her poetry won the 2020 Himan Brown Award in Creative Writing and has been featured in Exposition Review, The Margins, Stonecoast Review, Street Cake, Tricycle, and Asymptote journal among others.