Abing Addresses the Shadow of the Camphor Tree
Tonight, Brother, there’ll be no more secrets
between us. No easy dreams to yield to
to sing this life away. I shall speak to you
as a cinched echo to the green ghost
of a ripple, as one spurned exile to another.
All day, the bow of my erhu burned sweetly
against the twin strings & made them sigh
like the fishing line my father cast out
years ago, cleaving the summer air with a clean
swoosh to hook the mouth of a silver trout
& isn’t all music, in essence, a hunger—the kind
that polishes the spirit to a lush spark
like a match scratched into light? I’ve been told
that I house a cold soul. Let me guide you
to Him, a missionary once said to me
in his efficient Chinese, his voice furred
with the lure of pity, Let the Lord lift you
into His light. But I’ve always loved
darkness—even before my eyes were silenced
—as darkness must’ve always loved me, guarding me
at night in her clumsy mothering. Forgive
me, Brother. Memory numbs my mouth
like this jar of plum wine. The wind here is full
of apologies though it has a wicked tongue. Listen
as it turns a phrase now, how it erases the moon’s
annotation on the river’s darkening margin.
Note: This poem is part of a series of poems about the life of the blind Chinese folk musician, Abing (1893-1950), famed for his erhu performances.