Holding the Kenzon

Japanese, you say, for a frog. That
bed of spikes you stick stems in
in a bowl. I turn it over
in my hands, press one finger
against the polished points.

You rinse the rocks, the bowl;
spread on the table, twigs whose twists
attracted you, rusted clippers, twine.
Summer sunlight spots the floor, one wall.
You run the water hard, the bowl emerges
brilliant, brittle, clean. You dry it off
with the cloth we save for hands.

Out in the yard, the trees take wind,
branches scratch glass here on the second floor.
I study the mark you made on the wall
where the sun reached winter last year.
You put the bowl down, arrange wet rocks
within it, take the frog from me,
stand back to consider your move.

I move away, put on water for tea.
Brass spikes gleam in your hand.
The rocks—dark green against white,
covered with algae, chipped—
make a demand. I see you waiting
for the answer to come.

You look up at me, laugh.
This is the hard part, you say,
just the rocks and the kenzon
and me. I nod my head
as though I knew what you meant,
as though you and the kenzon and me
were in one room only, under one sun.

You lean on the sink, study the patterns
your own mind makes, green rocks held
in the bowl as you hold the
kenzon, as your dark gaze, rising,
holds one body only
in me.