Yale University Press - Cathy Song lyrics

The light is the inside sheen of an oyster shell, sponged with talc and vapor, moisture from a bath. A pair of slippers are placed outside the rice-paper doors. She kneels at a low table in the room, her legs folded beneath her as she sits on a buckwheat pillow. Her hair is black with hints of red, the color of seaweed spread over rocks. Morning begins the ritual wheel of the body, the application of translucent skins. She practices pleasure: the pressure of three fingertips applying powder. Fingerprints of pollen some other hand will trace. The peach-dyed kimono patterned with maple leaves drifting across the silk, falls from right to left in a diagonal, revealing the nape of her neck and the curve of a shoulder like the slope of a hill set deep in snow in a country of huge white solemn birds. Her face appears in the mirror, a reflection in a winter pond, rising to meet itself. She dips a corner of her sleeve like a brush into water to wipe the mirror; she is about to paint herself. The eyes narrow in a moment of self-scrutiny. The mouth parts as if desiring to disturb the placid plum face; break the symmetry of silence. But the berry-stained lips, stenciled into the mask of beauty, do not speak. Two chrysanthemums touch in the middle of the lake and drift apart.