I.
She put her hand upon my knee and spoke of Kathmandu—
how she was chosen, how the work had chosen her,
her English clean as consequence; I knew
the barman’s tux a tell, a door
I didn’t think to push. Soon a silver cup
arrived still smoking on its tray, and I
was ten years soft with Tokyo, had given up
the calculus of exits—then she fixed my eyes
the way a nurse prepares you for the needle prick.
And then: an ATM, two fists around my collar
in the rain. And then: my handler spinning tricks
around a pole, the mirror cleaving dancer
from her mark—again a silver tray,
the night split cleanly from the day.

II.
Isamu lifts his chin, I cross the room—
the cup goes down. Outside, the summer rain;
my gompa smells of cardamom and bloom
this time of year—the festival again,
the younger cousins loud until the dark.
This lham-pa’s face is kind. I tell my story,
every time. He’s listening, good. I start
again: I smell the marigolds, the glory-
vine above her door, the way the light
falls different there—I set my hand upon
his knee. He’s somewhere else now too—the night
takes hold of him. Isamu nods: he’s gone.
Each night the same, the mirror and the pole.
I count the take. I dream of going home.