Chrysanthemums

_______________________ The Japanese wife waits in the garden,
her four dreaming children about her.
Here there are no chrysanthemums.
Her kimono is folded away.
Each time when she pushed a child from her womb
she thought, he loves me.
In my bed there are no differences,
my arms are his temple and my hair his incense.
I will meet him on the bridge at the bottom of my garden,
he will fold me in his arms, as I fold my kimono.
She lives in a cold land.
The chrysanthemums in the public park are dead.
She has no charcoal brazier to warm her,
or iron pot for her tea,
and her mother is far away.
While her children sleep,
her husband dreams an American dream,
of computers and blonde haired women.
A land where garages are bigger then temples,
and the soul is folded away like a kimono.

© Nike Gardiner, Spring 1996

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