Her
father put on the ritual robes of his culture. He disappeared behind the
sacredness of his unconscious. He had moments for naming her wisdom. He was an
unsupporting mountain in her sacred land. Where she was the weaver, wisdom was
passed onto her through monotony. She diligently clothed herself in a style
that reflected an oath to their separation. This place they touched as
daughter-father, she keeps fixedly the same. Her joy is an unnamed parental
hand pushing her away. He carried her in his heart, not knowing the contents of
himself. Her lesson refines her with what she already knew. She learns to move
within without having space. It releases her and nothing is changed. All her
aspirant leaves for living kiss the roots of him by rotting. She has remade her
one tender spot all over her. She feeds it the constant callousing of their
separation. His absence makes for another orifice in her being. The wind of her
humanness blows through her there. She is always in mid-poem, calling out for
him as last lines. "The fragrance of orchid, working for the white crane,
holds me for ransom." Her father made her this news but then subjectively
named her, his loss. She punishes his ineptness with a lifetime of haunting to
ripen her for another life.
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