YU YOYO

SEVEN POEMS

translated by Henry Zhang 

Fanhehou Street

Let's open a bottle of red, you say 
I say sure 
but there's no bottle opener 
let's just have Wuliangye then, you say 
I say whichever one you like 
the woman next to you spies 
you bottle opening 
she glares at me 
we all know how much she hates me 
but alcohol's not for her 

a toast, a toast 
the woman raises a bowl of rice 
a toast, a toast 
the woman pulls on her sagging breasts 
a toast, a toast 
the woman is close to tears 
she throws her bowl down and flees to the kitchen 

a toast, a toast 
to my wife, to my mother 
to this day, her birthday

To Speak on a Heavy Topic

Enough rain 
to provender the eaves 
door so skinny 
those who've eaten 
can't enter 
squeeze past autumn 
scout with the head 
this world is such a disappointment 
I chide it until it cries 

Letter of Regret

I wrote so much love 
but never 
believed 
love would make me 
two cities, each ignoring the other 

many men 
only change 
reproductive organs 
and diminish into nothing 
neither mountain passes, single-beamed bridges 
well water, or river water 
need keep apace 
of the times 

I've fallen in love with an enemy 
with stupidity 
with the murderer 

I've stuck a pen in a field 
using language and crops 
to make huge, sky-large love 

sometimes I'm so tired 
panting, too I cry 
from solitude I try to excavate 
the human 
but what I pull off are hairs from the haunches 
of an animal

Bed

Inside my body 
moves 
every bed imaginable 
sometimes 
wood lies above 
grass below 
glass above 

I've fallen in love 
with lying supine 
wherein 
becoming woman 
ought to fit 
a certain story's plot 
sometimes crooked 
sometimes straight 
sometimes broken 
like using a pen to 
thoughtlessly adumbrate 
just when we've just reached the heartbreaking part 
it starts to shake 

every bed 
is secretly a king 
women 
reveal their 
shameful hearts 
for the first time
to it
and on impulse
give it offspring

I often
think of a scene:
I lie on
a wide, empty bed
cream white sheets
slowly become
red
deepening until
I can’t go anywhere

Dali

Dali's water 
drinks itself full 
can't move 
lies down by a woman's feet 
to smoke tobacco 
belches smoke 
and dissolves a single 
gilded shoe 
Now the woman can't walk 
stays by the water 
washing her feet 
not wanting to miss stepping 
on the cleanest cloud 
when she slips

Figment 

Sleep imitates death 
again she beds down dreams, again 
she surveys the structure of her hand 
from an empty door pushing open another door 
this instant we can no longer tell 
whether it is a hand prepared for war, or 
a hand saved up for sex 

cooperative fingers 
point upwards, or refuse 
sometimes chirping 
they predict 
one day 
there will be a child 
who wrecks her abdomen 
there will be a black box 
she's put in 
this whole affair 
of entering stillness

Will It Hurt 

Tell me 
will it hurt 
when flowers are washed of color 
will it hurt 
when clouds rub the moon a black-eye 
will it hurt 
when language contaminates love 
will it hurt 
when I'm osteoporotic 
and look back at myself now 
all shouts 
are confessions