Lantern Review: A Journal of Asian American Poetry
Issue 1 | June 2010

Phayvanh Luekhamhan, Tamiko Beyer, Soham Patel,
Bushra Rehman, & Matthew Olzmann

Sunken Garden Exit Ghazal

How to abandon the city you love: kiss the fire escapes and leave
your fingerprints on shop windows, your footprints in the garden.

She says to me there are certain kinds of bees—
physicists say it's impossible for them to fly in the garden.

When you finally lose Neruda's last book,
find it by the river or in the garden.

We'd eaten everything in sight and told all our jokes. You read me a poem
about absent horses and I sighed into the cradle of your garden.

Night. From here—the sound of water over stones.
You are made of fireflies, standing in the garden.

The mirror reflected the scene in reverse:
the cigarette, her body, the brown winter garden.

You take out the garbage.
I'll build you a garden.

Here it is the trees and ticks, the slow drugged bees on their way back again.
The deep ravines lining our palms are meeting in a midnight garden.