Obsequiæ

In the teacher’s room

there’s some Kuaizi in a pink and red package,

a red bi, a beige Yokohama pencil, old flashcards with

hong and chang jing lu on them.

“Successful FCE – 10 practice tests for Cambridge English”

A blue mug of room-temperature shui,

an empty BeMo’s bag where a burrito once dwelt.

Ripped tape visible through the glass wall.

K-class attendance 2/25-5/20.

K is for Knight.

It’s on top of the Fitzroy readers,

on the GEPT book,

on a thin yellow book,

on a thick white booklet,

on the ka fei-stained table.

There’s a red United Kingdom flag Sha En bag from promotion day,

reading comprehension;

on a blue book…

on an orange book.

I’m sweating from the walk from the gong che stop.

In my ears are:

Obsequiæ,

and when I hear the harp,

my thoughts travel back to the Cathédrale in Provence;

the baptistery, always facing East,

with the story about the king who asked God for a son.

There was the room where children sang Swedish carols.

Derelict columns.

Paintings who didn’t look down at you,

but called you up to look yourself.

Next door was the cloister where the monks circled

and chanted.

I’m walking before I know I’ve risen,

so that the ends of the hall approach me

and I oscillate between them.

The phone rings, and it’s

that same abbreviated classical tune

I’ve heard so often

all I hear is the flat

drone.

L'automne 2012 005

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