Guest Poet

These are what sounds I dream

The squall of a single erhu bowed
sings ancient low notes and
trickles eastern arias from
the peak of mount Lingshan.

with the cries of Sakamoto’s piano
and the pleasant murmur of my
dog’s snore as she dreams of
ham bones and unborn puppies.

These are what sounds I dream
when I think of waking homeless
one morning in the streets of Beijing
with no grasp of Mandarin.

It wouldn’t be so foreign,
English too being soaked and
tainted with pernicious slander.
Some cries have no language.

American nor Chinese tongues
spoke with the volume or weight
of stringed instruments
or sleeping dogs.

These are what sounds I dream.