In the garden of the Prefecture residence, under willow tree, cut grass scent breeze,
insects whirring, occasional bark of the sentry, evening at ease,
third wife, Celestial Glory, in pearl coloured gown, showing top of breast, soft and fair,
playing classical music on the zhongruen, ‘Cheng Mei-wei laments the dryness of the desert air’,
first wife, Morning Harmony, reading poetry,
lowers eyes in demure fashion, intellect broad, intense, yet free,
second wife, Passion Flower of the Night, gown partly open, showing thigh,
feeding pet baby squirrel imported African nuts, teaching it to reach high,
children playing chess under watchful eye of matron, maids wait with tea.
Peng you,
I think of you and the times we had together
at the Imperial Chancellery at Fuzhou,
the dinners of roast honey duck, stuffed fish, yam cake, fresh asparagus, a jug or two. How
were those nights of talk and argument, the weekends of bliss in tranquil weather.
(pulls back sleeve of golden silk robe, quietly sips from porcelain tea bowl)
I think of Rhododendron Blossom, the long hair
of a maiden as she gazed into the cool lake, where
the heron shook the drops of its back, itself bathing,
the mountain eagle flying on the wing.
Ah, the moment that my love gave birth.
You were much better than me at university,
top in Literature, Morals, Philosophy.
I am surprised you chose to be a judge, albeit in the High Court.
the quiet life of a scholar and teacher - I think what you could have taught -
would have suited a man of your breeding, education, and worth.
I admire the height that you reach.
(claps hand for maid, gently hold petals of morning glory toward the lamp, nods in thoughtful way)
My paper on herbal remedies was well received at court;
maybe I’ll be appointed the Royal Pharmacologist.
I jest, for I know there will be an admonishing retort;
you are right, that life would not suit me.
I keep well enough here, with my three women, the children too.
The moon is clouding over, rain I fear. Morning mist
is usual this time of year, as is malaria; the air is thick, one can almost chew.
I have work, some research; I salute you with my tea.
(official wax seal by scribe, leans back in teak chair, opens book on history)
The Modern Orient 8pm, circa 2003
(Fifteen years into the Homer Dynasty)
In an open restaurant, a dirty street next to monsoon drain, with municipal rubbish tip.
First and only wife (groan), one hand on teenage-tight jeans hip.
Nescafe tee-shirt complete with ten hours of Malaysian heat and humidity,
other hand on hand-phone, shouting in verbal nitro-glycerine acidity.
Mosquito whining, bone of table’s last occupants’ meal waiting for someone to collect.
Raucous Taiwanese soap opera on the TV, sub-zero intellect.
Flea-bitten dog urinating against car tyre, three metres away.
Customer ready to go, sniffs loudly and deeply in throat, pulls up sweaty tee-shirt, bares hairless stomach
picks up chopstick, scratches arm,
throws burning cigarette into road, yells at gormless, TV-watching, nose-picking, Form Three part-time waitress of dubious hygiene
puts receipt in pocket with change, spits out toothpick
