The Cleaving

    He gossips like my grandmother， this man

    with my face， and I could stand

    amused all afternoon

    in the Hon Kee Grocery，

    amid hanging meats he

    chops： roast pork cut

    from a hog hung

    by nose and shoulders，

    her entire skin burnt

    crisp， flesh I know

    to be sweet，

    her shining

    face grinning

    up at ducks

    dangling single file，

    each pierced by black

    hooks through breast， bill，

    and steaming from a hole

    stitched shut at the ass，

    I step to the counter， recite，

    and he， without even slightly

    varying the rhythm of his current confession or harangue，

    scribbles my order on a greasy receipt，

    and chops it up quick.

    Such a sorrowful Chinese face，

    nomad， Gobi， Northern

    in its boniness

    clear from the high

    warlike forehead

    to the sheer edge of the jaw.

    He could be my brother， but finer，

    and， except for his left forearm， which is engorged，

    sinewy from his daily grip and

    wield of a two-pound tool，

    he's delicate， narrow-

    waisted， his frame

    so slight a lover， some

    rough other

    might break it down

    its smooth， oily length.

    In his light-handed calligraphy

    on receipts and in his

    moodiness， he is

    a Southerner from a river-province；

    suited for scholarship， his face poised

    above an open book， he'd mumble

    his favorite passages.

    He could be my grandfather；

    come to America to get a Western education

    in 1917， but too homesick to study，

    he sits in the park all day， reading poems

    and writing letters to his mother.

    He lops the head off， chops

    the neck of the duck

    into six， slits

    the body

    open， groin

    to breast， and drains

    the scalding juices，

    then quarters the carcass

    with two fast hacks of the cleaver，

    old blade that has worn

    into the surface of the round

    foot-thick chop-block

    a scoop that cradles precisely the curved steel.

    The head， flung from the body， opens

    down the middle where the butcher

    cleanly halved it between

    the eyes， and I

    see， foetal-crouched

    inside the skull， the homunculus，

    gray brain grainy

    to eat.

    Did this animal， after all， at the moment

    its neck broke，

    image the way his executioner

    shrinks from his own death？

    Is this how

    I， too， recoil from my day？

    See how this shape

    hordes itself， see how

    little it is.

    See its grease on the blade.

    Is this how I'll be found

    when judgement is passed， when names

    are called， when crimes are tallied？

    This is also how I looked before I tore my mother open.

    Is this how I presided over my century， is this how

    I regarded the murders？

    This is also how I prayed.

    Was it me in the Other

    I prayed to when I prayed？

    This too was how I slept， clutching my wife.

    Was it me in the other I loved

    when I loved another？

    The butcher sees me eye this delicacy.

    With a finger， he picks it

    out of the skull-cradle

    and offers it to me.

    I take it gingerly between my fingers

    and suck it down.

    I eat my man.

    The noise the body makes

    when the body meets

    the soul over the soul's ocean and penumbra

    is the old sound of up-and-down， in-and-out，

    a lump of muscle chug-chugging blood

    into the ear； a lover's

    heart-shaped tongue；

    flesh rocking flesh until flesh comes；

    the butcher working

    at his block and blade to marry their shapes

    by violence and time；

    an engine crossing，

    re-crossing salt water， hauling

    immigrants and the junk

    of the poor. These

    are the faces I love， the bodies

    and scents of bodies

    for which I long

    in various ways， at various times，

    thirteen gathered around the redwood，

    happy， talkative， voracious

    at day's end，

    eager to eat

    four kinds of meat

    prepared four different ways，

    numerous plates and bowls of rice and vegetables，

    each made by distinct affections

    and brought to table by many hands.

    Brothers and sisters by blood and design，

    who sit in separate bodies of varied shapes，

    we constitute a many-membered

    body of love.

    In a world of shapes

    of my desires， each one here

    is a shape of one of my desires， and each

    is known to me and dear by virtue

    of each one's unique corruption

    of those texts， the face， the body：

    that jut jaw

    to gnash tendon；

    that wide nose to meet the blows

    a face like that invites；

    those long eyes closing on the seen；

    those thick lips

    to suck the meat of animals

    or recite 300 poems of the T'ang；

    these teeth to bite my monosyllables；

    these cheekbones to make

    those syllables sing the soul.

    Puffed or sunken

    according to the life，

    dark or light according

    to the birth， straight

    or humped， whole， manqué， quasi， each pleases， verging

    on utter grotesquery.

    All are beautiful by variety.

    The soul too

    is a debasement

    of a text， but， thus， it

    acquires salience， although a

    human salience， but

    inimitable， and， hence， memorable.

    God is the text.

    The soul is a corruption

    and a mnemonic.

    A bright moment，

    I hold up an old head

    from the sea and admire the haughty

    down-curved mouth

    that seems to disdain

    all the eyes are blind to，

    including me， the eater.

    Whole unto itself， complete

    without me， yet its

    shape complements the shape of my mind.

    I take it as text and evidence

    of the world's love for me，

    and I feel urged to utterance，

    urged to read the body of the world， urged

    to say it

    in human terms，

    my reading a kind of eating， my eating

    a kind of reading，

    my saying a diminishment， my noise

    a love-in-answer.

    What is it in me would

    devour the world to utter it？

    What is it in me will not let

    the world be， would eat

    not just this fish，

    but the one who killed it，

    the butcher who cleaned it.

    I would eat the way he

    squats， the way he

    reaches into the plastic tubs

    and pulls out a fish， clubs it， takes it

    to the sink， guts it， drops it on the weighing pan.

    I would eat that thrash

    and plunge of the watery body

    in the water， that liquid violence

    between the man's hands，

    I would eat

    the gutless twitching on the scales，

    three pounds of dumb

    nerve and pulse， I would eat it all

    to utter it.

    The deaths at the sinks， those bodies prepared

    for eating， I would eat，

    and the standing deaths

    at the counters， in the aisles，

    the walking deaths in the streets，

    the death-far-from-home， the death-

    in-a-strange-land， these Chinatown

    deaths， these American deaths.

    I would devour this race to sing it，

    this race that according to Emerson

    managed to preserve to a hair

    for three or four thousand years

    the ugliest features in the world.

    I would eat these features， eat

    the last three or four thousand years， every hair.

    And I would eat Emerson， his transparent soul， his

    soporific transcendence.

    I would eat this head，

    glazed in pepper-speckled sauce，

    the cooked eyes opaque in their sockets.

    I bring it to my mouth and——

    the way I was taught， the way I've watched

    others before me do——

    with a stiff tongue lick out

    the cheek-meat and the meat

    over the armored jaw， my eating，

    its sensual， salient nowness，

    punctuating the void

    from which such hunger springs and to which it proceeds.

    And what

    is this

    I excavate

    with my mouth？

    What is this

    plated， ribbed， hinged

    architecture， this carp head，

    but one more

    articulation of a single nothing

    severally manifested？

    What is my eating，

    rapt as it is，

    but another

    shape of going，

    my immaculate expiration？

    O， nothing is so

    steadfast it won't go

    the way the body goes.

    The body goes.

    The body's grave，

    so serious

    in its dying，

    arduous as martyrs

    in that task and as

    glorious. It goes

    empty always

    and announces its going

    by spasms and groans， farts and sweats.

    What I thought were the arms

    aching cleave， were the knees trembling leave.

    What I thought were the muscles

    insisting resist， persist， exist，

    were the pores

    hissing mist and waste.

    What I thought was the body humming reside， reside，

    was the body sighing revise， revise.

    O， the murderous deletions， the keening

    down to nothing， the cleaving.

    All of the body's revisions end

    in death.

    All of the body's revisions end.

    Bodies eating bodies， heads eating heads，

    we are nothing eating nothing，

    and though we feast，

    are filled， overfilled，

    we go famished.

    We gang the doors of death.

    That is， out deaths are fed

    that we may continue our daily dying，

    our bodies going

    down， while the plates-soon-empty

    are passed around， that true

    direction of our true prayers，

    while the butcher spells

    his message， manifold，

    in the mortal air.

    He coaxes， cleaves， brings change

    before our very eyes， and at every

    moment of our being.

    As we eat we're eaten.

    Else what is this

    violence， this salt， this

    passion， this heaven？

    I thought the soul an airy thing.

    I did not know the soul

    is cleaved so that the soul might be restored.

    Live wood hewn，

    its sap springs from a sticky wound.

    No seed， no egg has he

    whose business calls for an axe.

    In the trade of my soul's shaping，

    he traffics in hews and hacks.

    No easy thing， violence.

    One of its names？ Change. Change

    resides in the embrace

    of the effaced and the effacer，

    in the covenant of the opened and the opener；

    the axe accomplishes it on the soul's axis.

    What then may I do

    but cleave to what cleaves me.

    I kiss the blade and eat my meat.

    I thank the wielder and receive，

    while terror spirits

    my change， sorrow also.

    The terror the butcher

    scripts in the unhealed

    air， the sorrow of his Shang

    dynasty face，

    African face with slit eyes. He is

    my sister， this

    beautiful Bedouin， this Shulamite，

    keeper of sabbaths， diviner

    of holy texts， this dark

    dancer， this Jew， this Asian， this one

    with the Cambodian face， Vietnamese face， this Chinese

    I daily face，

    this immigrant，

    this man with my own face.