I Love a Broad Margin to My Life

  joining myself to this place. Drinking,

  aware that I, a citizen from the wealthiest,

  squanderingest country, am taking precious water.

  Unpurified tap water. Aware that I

  risk my life, I throw in my lot

  with the health of this common village. Sit

  right down on the curbstone on the east

  side of the square. Face the last of the sun.

  Unpack notebook and pen. Write:

  arrive

  adobe

  China

  home

  At home in a civilization kind with plazas,

  containing me and the sky and a square of earth.

  Father Sky

  Mother Earth

  It’s not only Native Americans who pray

  Father Sky Mother Earth. Chinese

  say Father Sky Mother Earth too.

  In the almanac of stars, moons, luck, and farming:

  Ba

  T’ien

  Ma

  Day

  Doff sneakers, doff socks, feel

  the ground with naked soles. The floor of the plaza

  is warm and smooth; skin meets skin.

  Chinese generations walked

  barefoot here, sweated, oiled,

  spat upon, tamped the black soil,

  which they could’ve planted, so rich. Now,

  the farmers, men and women, homeward plod.

  A goatherd following his goats and sheep,

  a duckherd his ducks, light and long shadows

  of many legs oscillating. They came upon

  the writing man—poet!? retired philosopher!?—

  in the act of public writing. Quietly,

  they peered over his shoulders, peered over

  his right (writing) hand, peered over

  his other hand. By calligraphy, they can tell

  character and fate. Readers jostled

  one another for the spot directly in front,

  looked at his writing upside down,

  craned their necks to see it from his point

  of view. English! The Brave Language. But

  his Chinese! A boy’s Chinese.

  The man draws like a boy. “Read, la.

  Read, la-a.” Our not-so-ugly American

  dared recite loudly, in his best language

  and second-best language, the 4-word

  poems. Audience clapped hands, and laughed,

  and mimicked, and asked, “You’ve come from what

  far place, aw?” “I was born in the Beautiful

  Country.” “Aiya-a. Beautiful Country.

  Is Beautiful Country truly beautiful and rich?”

  “Well …” (Well, English, American.) “Beautiful

  Country People are like me, not too

  beautiful, not too ugly, not too

  rich, not too poor. But some

  too rich, too poor. Most,

  my color skin, tan. Our color

  skin.” Actually, the color skin of the people

  around was darker, darker from working in the sun.

  “I live in Big City. Eighty

  out of one hundred people live in the cities.

  But I am not like everybody.

  Everybody has cars. 2 cars.

  I don’t have one car.

  I don’t want one car.”

  Have and want, same sound, not

  same tone. They pitied him, poor man,

  no car. Audience grew, 50

  souls hearing the sojourner who’d seen the Beautiful

  Country, who’d learned to write their horizontal alphabet.

  People vied with one another, please,

  dear writer traveller teacher, come

  to our home for rice, and stay the night.

  A confident village, the people not shy

  to bring you home and see their hovel.

  He chose a solid-seeming man, mine

  good host, and comradely put himself in yoke.

  The farmers, washing up in public, showed off

  the on-and-off faucets and the pipes. They filled

  wood buckets and plastic buckets and jars.

  Wittman asked for a carrying pole across

  his neck, above his backpack, which steadied

  and cushioned the bouncy, springy, sloshing, heavy

  double load. Proudly, he sidestepped

  through alleyways and around corners, and up and over

  the raised threshold into the courtyard,

  brought that water home where he would stay.

  His host—Lai Lu Gaw,

  Brother Lai Lu—praised and thanked

  Witt Man Gaw—shouted, “A good person

  has come to visit us!” Out of the dark

  of an open doorway appeared a woman. How

  to describe Beauty? Perfection. Symmetry. Beyond

  compare in all aspects—intelligence of gaze,

  tallness of stature, star presence, gentilesse.

  Not young, not old. Just right.

  What a good man am I, able

  to love looks so not-American. Bro

  Lai Lu introduced her as Moy Moy.

  Younger Sister. (Lower tone: Plum Plum.)

  They’re not husband and wife. Father and daughter?

  Brother bade brother, Come in,

  la. Sit, la. Rest, la.

  Home, la. The men sat on stools

  at a low table. The woman brought tea;

  she poured. With both hands, she

  held the cup out to the guest, who

  quickly accepted it with his 2 hands.

  I am paying you my full attention.

  The Communists and the Cultural Revolution have not

  wiped out manners. Hosts and guest drank

  without speaking. From the dark loft hung,

  high and low, dried and drying plants,

  tree branches, gourds with writing on them, clusters

  of seeds, baskets. On the ground, the dirt floor,

  all around were open jars and sealed

  jars, bales, bundles, sheaves. We

  are bowered in a nest. Smell: medicine herbs,

  chrysanthemum, mustard, licorice, cilantro,

  vinegar. The poor save everything, all

  they make and grow, and so feel abundant.

  Please don’t want to be like us. Don’t want.

  Host as well as hostess carried from stove

  and cooler, from pots and jars, dishes of brown

  foods. A cauldron of white rice, enough

  for meal after meal. The brown foods

  tasted like jerked meat, sausage, brined

  and sugared citrus and plums. Moy Moy

  got up, and cooked afresh peas and choy,

  greens of the new harvest. Back-home

  Chinese, too, cook throughout

  the dinner party, everybody in

  the kitchen. The hostess began conversation:

  “Are you married?” What answer but Yes?

  “Yes. She’s not Chinese.” Too

  small vocabulary, blurt it all. “She’s

  white ghost woman. Her name, Taña,

  means Play.” (Fawn. Lower tone: Food.)

  “I married Play. Heh heh.

  I married Food. She married me.

  I am with her more years than I am without her.”

  Hard to parley verb tenses. And impossible

  to admit: Marry white, escape karma.

  “How much money did you pay

  for your airplane ticket?” She’s rude, bad

  manners East and West to ask cost.

  Truth-caring Wittman answered, “One

  thousand dollars one-way.” Impossible

  to explain redeeming coupons, miles, life

  savings. “Waaah! One thousand dollars!?!

  What do you do to make such money?”

  “I write.” Impossible to explain the life

  in theater. The moneymaking wife. “So,
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  how do you make your money?” “Farmer

  peasants don’t make money, don’t

  use cash.” They live as most human

  beings have lived, directly on ground that gives

  work and sustenance. “Mr. American Teacher,

  will you marry me, and get me out

  of the countryside?” “But I’m already married.

  I have a wife and son.” “No matter.

  No problem. Marry me, a Chinese

  woman. Chinese women are beautiful,

  kind, and good.” “I came but today to the country-

  side, and do not want to leave it.”

  The brother spoke up, “I want to

  stay in the countryside too. I learned

  the lesson Chairman Mao sent us down

  to learn: The people who work the earth know

  true good life.” “Where were you

  sent down from?” “Shanghai City.”

  The Shanghainese took the worst

  punishment in the 10 Years of Great Calamity.

  “We read. Both of us, readers. So sent

  down, Moy Moy to Xinjiang,

  I to another part of Xinjiang,

  far far west, beyond Xizang,

  almost beyond China. There are Uighur

  Chinese, Muslim Chinese,

  Xizang Chinese. The women—

  they’re so free—whirl and twirl,

  raise their arms to the sky. The music comes

  from bagpipes. Pairs of women lift and

  lower the grain pounder—bang bang bang bang—

  a music too. Their religion has to do with

  buffalos. They collect the skulls and long horns,

  and put them on a wall or on the floor,

  and that place changes to a holy place.

  That area was made good. I felt

  the good. I am able to know Good.”

  So, what does Good feel like?

  He could not say. Or he did say,

  but in Chinese, and one’s Chinese

  is not good enough to hear. “After

  Great Calamity, after Xinjiang,

  I went on the road. People are still

  on the road, millions traveling like

  desert people. But the desert people

  go on roads they know for ten

  thousand years. We seek work.

  We seek justice.” Or restitution.

  Or revenge. Come out even.

  You know what he means, millions of homeless

  wandering the country, displaced by dams, industrial

  zones, the Olympics. “I wandered lost to many

  villages until I came here and made up my mind

  Stop. Here. My stay-put home.

  I took for my own this empty house,

  whose family left to work in Industrial Zone.

  Many empty houses—you can have

  any one you like.” “I want you

  to take me to U.S.A.,”

  said Moy Moy. “A Chinese farmer

  is nothing. A maker of the mouse in an electric brain

  factory—nothing.” The nightingale in the cage above

  their heads sang along with the talking, and scattered

  seeds and spattered water down upon the talkers

  (and their food). A bare lightbulb hung next

  to a wall, to be lit for emergencies and holidays.

  In the dark, Moy Moy told

  her failure: She’s never married.

  “During the Great Calamity, women acted

  married to one husband, and another husband,

  and another. I had no one. No one

  but this brother waiting for me at the agreed-upon

  place.” Lai Lu told

  his failure: “I have no children.”

  Wittman told his failures: Not

  staying with his wife till death us do part.

  His son not married. Never getting

  a play on Broadway, New York. Not

  learning enough Chinese language.

  (Marilyn Chin says, “The poet must read

  classical Chinese. And hear Say Yup.”)

  Midnight, Lai Lu stood, said,

  “Ho, la. Good sleep, la.”

  He left for some back room. Moy Moy

  said, “Follow me.” Wittman followed her

  out the front door. White stones

  studded the courtyard walls;

  a jewel-box up-poured stars into sky.

  Followed the queue of black hair gleaming

  in the black night, hied through alleys that turned,

  and again turned, and again, 3 corners

  in, and entered a home through an unlocked

  door. “No one lives here.

  You may live here.” She parted curtains.

  The bed was a shelf, like a sleeper on Amtrak.

  She backed into the cupboard, scooted, and sat.

  Her pretty bare feet swung. He

  sat beside her. “Heart Man, marry me.”

  He ought to kiss her. But they don’t have

  that custom, do they? He was a virgin for Mongolian

  women. Aged, married too long,

  the body refused to spring and pounce and feast,

  to make the decision for sex. He reached for and held

  her hands. “Moy Moy.” Oh, no,

  shouldn’t’ve said her name. Can’t fuck

  Younger Sister. “Thank you for wanting me

  to marry you.” Her hands felt trusty. “Marry”

  said, and “marry” heard many times tonight.

  Taña appears. She’s sitting on the other side of him;

  that’s her, warm pressing against him. He

  could see her in the dark, her whitegold

  hair, her expression; she’s interested, curious,

  pissed off. He tapped her bare foot

  with his bare foot. She’s solid.

  A red string ties her ankle to

  his ankle. No string connecting him and

  the other woman. He spoke to the not-hallucinated

  one. “You’re the most beautiful Chinese

  woman I’ve ever met. I dearly want

  to kissu, suck lips with you.”

  Say anything; Taña doesn’t know

  Chinese. “Thank you, you want to marry me.”

  A rule of the open road: Keep thanking.

  “However, I don’t want more marriage.

  Our son, my one son doesn’t have any marriage.

  No one. Will you marry him?” Wittman

  dismayed and amazed himself. Forever, then.

  Forever husband. Forever father. Never

  lust after a woman again but wish her

  for his lonely son. I wish for Mario

  a life’s companion. “My son, Mario,

  makes good money. He knows power

  tools and car mechanics. He can cook.

  He has some college. He is kind

  and intelligent, and I want for him a kind

  and intelligent person.” The old Chinese

  customs aren’t so bad; fix him up

  with a wife, a daughter-in-law of my own choosing.

  Moy Moy’s holding of his hand became

  a handshake. “Dui dui dui,”

  she cooed. “We will agree on a place to meet.

  He will be waiting for me there. Ho, la.

  Good night, la. Good sleep, la-a-a.”

  (You do not need vocabulary to understand

  the Chinese. Just feel the emotion

  in la-a-a and ahh and mo and aiya.)

  Moy Moy left. Taña, also, left.

  I am alone in the dark, so dark that

  nothing exists but my thoughts, and thoughts

  are nothing. Came all the way to China,

  and failed to fuck another besides my long-

  wedded spouse before I die.

  The next thing,

  dust was falling like ash, like glitter. Far<
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  away, so faint, maybe imaginary, crowed

  a rooster. Another, closer, rooster answered,

  took up the opera, and another, and another,

  each rooster louder, the loudest blaring

  right outside the window. Wake up

  in a village in China. Go use the community

  toilet. Wash up in the town square,

  brush teeth, swab down with the guys.

  The women clean themselves indoors.

  “Ho sun.” “Ho sun.” “Ho sun.”

  “Ho sun.” Good morning. Good

  body. Good belief. Good letter.

  A happy civilization, glad to see

  one and all, every morning. “Help me

  farm rice?” asked Brother Lai Lu.

  He took Wittman’s hand. 2 men

  are walking China hand in hand. They walked

  to the field for planting on this hopeful day.

  They wrapped seedlings in cloth, settled the bundles

  in baskets, tied baskets to waist, and waded

  into the paddy. Oooh, the mud, the pleasureful

  mud, my free and happy toes. You trace

  in water a square, and at each corner embed

  one rice plant. Oh, my hands

  rooting and squishing silken luscious mud.

  Look up: A line of rising and bending

  people—kids too—are coming toward

  our line. (The kids are all boys.

  The girls have been adopted out to the most loving,

  well-educated parents in the West. Chinese

  girls will take over and improve America.)

  Children, everybody growing mai.

  Plant toward someone who’s planting toward you,

  and make straight rows. Perfectly quiet,

  we’re sighting and pacing one another, and organizing

  the water into small and large rectangles, stitching

  a silvery quilt over Mother Earth.

  Every jade-green spikelet has its jade-

  green water double. 2 infinite

  blue skies. Slow white clouds

  form, move and change, and wisp away.

  Me, the one amid all of it taking

  note. In the silence, critters peeping,

  buzzing, chirping, humming, seem to be

  my own mind idling and making it up—

  but a frog jumps, a dragonfly zooms.

  Tadpoles—schools of tadpoles—hurry by.

  A mudsnail gliding and sliding. And me

  planting rice, helping to feed a fifth

  of the world’s people. All, all related.

  This planting food together is heart

  center. Hour after hour, eon after eon,

  doing the same thing, plant, plant,

  sink, loft, into water, into sky,

  I am one of the human race that has always

  done this work. Stay, let this life be

  my whole life, and these people my people.

  That other life, the one in America, the wife,