Walk of A Dancer

(For Linyih Xing)

We try to find words
or glimses of the past.
We find a body

in the September Station
of Ronkonkoma
where the train left us
with nothing
except the wind.

We pick you up
from a life journey
which has gotten nowhere
except to fear
of another stop

with a straw bag of ten years
in hand
and the feet
of a dancer
for more walking.

I want to say,
I know.
we open our bags
from the past

that we can barely carry
on our shoulders.
We used to drop things,
eliminate the unncessary
until we found nothing

was indispensable
and the lightness
grew heavy.
Then, we put back
a few things:

Like herbs cut from the garden
of your yesterday home.
rootless and half wilted from the train.
Rosemary, Lavender, and Mint...
Now dry in my home for fragrance.

Then, there are the other things:
Jewlery, beads, stones,
passed down from our grandmothers,
mothers, or aunts
as protectors on our bumpy paths.

A jade Buddha
for longevity,
A golden Christ
for holy presence,
An amethyst necklace
to calm and heal,
A coral bracelet
for ennobling,
A golden Star of David
from a friend.

We divide them,
share the blessings:
Re-string them,
then send them to others

1992 New York

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