Prose

How does one plunder something like peace of mind? The old pirate looks strange with his sarong bag in the bustle of Zhejiang. Even the eye-patch is there, but hardly ornamental or a political statement. There’s a long scar down his left eye, thick and callused, as if to say this story is one that will remain untold, remain mine. “Memory is a pirated something too, isn’t it?” Gigi says, adjusting the flower in her gingham hat, its fabric petals drooping in the humidity. She’s thinking of the Mahabharata, in particular the Anusasana Parvan. In this scene, the wise grand uncle Bhísma, laying on his bed of arrows, instructs Yudhisthira on ahimsa. Gigi’s dreams were dear and ideal too, like her memory of them. Like a wheel? This is sentiment borne of an ars poetica, signed off with your name and mine. The cache in Gigi’s pocket will fit no one but her. In it, the pirate sees what he can retrieve for his people. The abode of no abode.


* This is a reprint. The poem first appeared in the literary journal "Ceriph".