Part Four


Would you be deeper in me than my belonging,
the imbiber of sweetness at my soft breasts?
       I will be a woman who is always remembering
the summertime wetness and the far plantations.
The aching of harvest in her reeking body
       arches her back and bends her still yielding
in a thousand small pieces the flooding joy
that reaches through happiness to airy toes.

I was astonished and still more falling as
to a tumbrel of fire and still more wanting
      that opened to a deeper and fuller fire.
I who was nightshade am belladonna, the smoke
that stirred others now burnishes me. I am
       the morning as you are the evening, the
fury of body which is yearning and lifting,
a cauldron of having in which I lose my heart.

Afterwards I float though I am sinking further
into promises that hurt and are hungering still.
      No longer the temptress, the great romancer,
no more the mistress of the gracious ways,
but hungry and abandoned, a little girl crying
      for the far away mists of the Pha Mieng Hills:
where is the comfort to seep in and crumple
and where are his hands, O my little Mae-Ying?

Chirawan is done for without her possession of
money and intelligence that returns in fear
        that he will disown me as the seasons
are passing from comfort and into grief.
Chirawan will not tremble but always be smiling
        her body not smoking but only delighting
in the thousand small kisses that return collecting
the day coming breezily from out of doors.

80. Secreting like a limpet Mae-Ying is kept
large to herself how the inner parts feel.
        Bridal the body but she keeps on turning,
shivering and glittering she wakes each day.
She is the goddess, the golden performer, kissed
        a thousand times hungrily over the skin.
Here is the morning and here is the evening,
but all time the harmony of her small arms.

All that she drinks is ingested pleasure,
the fire that spurts out of her extended hands.
         Hard into her is his manhood opening, fierce
is the wound that spreads itself wanting.
Mae-Ying in sitting or walking is only
         a burning shut up into inner sweetness,
a honey from soreness and still it hurts,
Mae-Ying is held by a golden hook.

What will it lead to and how will it last? Always
I ask him but he only say: Let him be angry,
          words will not hurt us, we'll marry soon.
Perhaps he can do that but Mae-Ying uncertain,
Bernard she know and he won't forgive. She
          say yes to engagement and yes to their moving
while still she have doubts but only smile as
Richard he begs her and she nod her head.

Joy is a passing and a strange delirium.
Love is the black face of the moon. What
       was destiny my own Lord Buddha, you
who I prayed to, didn't you hear? Continually
I call on you through this world of shadows,
      further than knowing not only at night-time,
Mae-Ying must opening and close her body,
be streaming with wetness like a child.

I am the dancer of the shuttered entrapments,
of small days that press into my own back yard.
       I the enchanter and the skilled romancer,
brilliant compositor of night-lands to rest.
Why should she care if old man difficult,
      and sit there so angry with bloodshot eyes?
In all my soft length on the flowered sofa
it's slowly and cautiously I begin.

85. Don't kid yourself, Cherry, he so loud and angry:
The boy's lost his head, we can all see that.
       I asked you, I told you, Bernard a moment
not to so leave us but you wouldn't listen.
I take all the blame but Richard is yours.
      Pig's arse to that! and even the house keeper
say now don't you too fret love. He's always like this,
threatening the worst but he comes around.

A single room for Mae-Ying at bookshop
where she sit to sell maybe nothing all day.
      Idle and lonely but she think of evening
with Richard there smiling and kissing her.
At sales or at auctions Mae-Ying stay modest,
      to know what men mean but never say.
Always they pretend and she too in smiling, say
you come bookshop to see me again.

So always good salesperson always she promise
change if they ask me to make one more sale.
       So it go on, month and month and always
we make out, though she see Richard worry,
weekends and night-times he doesn't sleep.
       Dad has taken it badly. I knew he might.
Then why you not tell me, but promise it easy?
Would you have left him, if you had known?

Why should an old man only with money have
all that I wanted which is you Mae-Ying?
        I tell him be quiet, it doesn't matter.
But it does, and he tell me business lose,
without Bernard's word the bank withdraw loan.
         Mae-Ying she smile and ask appointment
But Bernard laugh and ask what's on offer
So Mae-Ying be quiet and put down phone.

She come at last this woman once mistress
in short dress and sports car at evening
         she know the housekeeper will not be there.
Never was woman so alluringly dangerous with
downcast submissive and still mischievous pose.
         So the whore has come back with her prospects
in tatters for forgiveness and extra cash,
forgetting the treachery, which never happened?

90. I ask not forgiveness but you help your son.
Do you, like that? We can start from here.
        How do I know you'll keep the bargain?
How do I know you won't tell Richard? I ask
but now he is roaring and shouting and raging.
       Bernard I do this but on one condition that
this is the last time and you write a letter
explaining that now before we go upstairs.

Ah, Mae-Ying she stupid and over-trusting. He
write me the letter but then snatch my arm.
        Gross and horrible he is not respecting
the life he once had in the midnight dancer.
Though I am crying he still bend me over,
        tear off clothes like a rabid dog. What must
I do to stop the insides burning, what
must I do to keep Richard safe?

So I take him still further and further,
holding out longer than an old man should.
        Mae-Ying is the sorcerer, the midnight eluder,
which he has and he hasn't and her legs are beating.
She turn and he turn and is thrusting and hurting,
        the breath coming shortly and eyeballs hurt:
Mae-Ying the butterfly is almost breaking but at
last he is lifted and falling and then is gone.

With the body cooling I phone for ambulance,
to police and doctor make simple statement
       Everything I tell them except for money.
Mighty conciliatory, the doctor say. True,
with clothes torn off cannot Mae-Ying look modest
       but with towel around she go so to Richard
who stares and then shouts and waves his arms
to angrily, how angrily, he shakes me off.

I stand before you as the daylight's protector
of what we two had and is now again.
        What did you want but to have the money?
Here, and I show him old Bernard's letter.
He take it from me and tear in pieces.
        For you I have done this and what is hurting,
disgraces me further as I know its cost,
that however I wash it will not be clean.

95. Chirawan you disgust me, just go away,
quietly if you would, we don't want trouble.
       Yes, he was grasping, was often difficult
but not such to murder, to lead him on.
He was an old man, failing, holding together
       such as life was. You were the only,
the one he set store by to make his life.

Is this what you tell me with a deportation,
order for Monday in one month's time?
      I ask you for pity to think a moment,
speak as you have a thousand times. I am the
breath of the living that was far inside you,
       helping you outward to health in me: I
am nighttime of passion, the daylight's sorcery,
when once you lived under my fragrant breath.

Where would you have me in that flame of
movement in consort as we hold together?
       I told you always of the heavy entanglement,
Mae-Ying of the passing adulterous eyelids,
a wandering of summertime in a breath of dust.
      Must I go back to my homeland working
to be in some bar or become second wife?
Will you not see me, ever, not ever again?

No look, no answer. Mae-Ying returning
at length to the airport, the old streets passing,
        asks of Lord Buddha why the days are dreams?
Far from this cold land and its own self-righteous
do and not doing that look strange at me.
        Mae-Ying the brilliant, is the butterfly listening
to the wind as it chatters of another country,
one maybe distant but part of me.

I fasten seatbelt, look out of the window, see
the hummingbird colours and the blaze of harvest,
        the dazzle of sunlight on the furrowed rice.
Mae-Ying come home and was never thinking
of life to be different but all the time turning
       like the strong Chao Phraya with its glittering
pagodas, men passing and the women reflected
in a dazzle of water that is always gone.

100. True, my Lord Buddha I am the sinner, also
the dancer, the seamstress, the spinner of dreams.
The trees take our hands and the hard days of life
        are blessed with our bodies and in my giving
is the small rain falling on the Pha Mieng Hills.
Far as the wind that is always speaking, far
        as the farangs and their little lives, I am
Mae-Ying of a brilliance to dance again.


Now rewritten and published as a free ebook by Ocaso Press.


part one     part two    part three    part four