issue 33 > poetry > poochigian
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Li-ling Levine II
by Aaron Poochigian
More peeved than panicked,
she pounds parquet
out of the Arts
of Ancient China.
Lions lounging
on low pedestals
flank the foyer
to the faux Ming Study,
their trance unbroken
as she taps between them.
An American Monday
mopes inside:
scant sun through the skylight;
obscurity merely
graying gloom.
A goldfish pond
frets beneath
artificial falls.
Stone-carvings meant
to spark transcendence
are terrors now,
grotesque mutations
impaled on bases.
Bits of a broken
clay Confucius
fragment further
beneath her heels.
Who mishandled him?
Who’s lurking about?
Legs taut, she listens,
catches under
the cascade’s clatter
males murmuring.
Mace and Maglite
two floors down
in a Tory Burch tote,
she’s still got guts
and growls in greeting,
“Come out, cowards.”
A corner duly
shoots forth shadows,
shapeless at first,
then humanoid
with heads of hosiery.
Their grab is gloved,
the gauze that gags her
spiked with stupor.
Stubborn streak
tamed for a time,
a top sinologist
is trucked downtown
for a dead-end date
with someone special—
spicy stuff
cooking miles
from your closed consciousness.