Why does it mean
anything that the girl
sitting beside me,
her hair cropped
punk-close on the
sides, long and gelled
stiff at top, her
legs in camouflage
leggings, her boots
black as crude oil,
the odor coming from
her a mixture of
incense and some
kind of bitter and
rocky herb, that
this smell is exactly
the smell of my
grandfather's sickbed
brew, the last-resort
swamp liquid
a Chinatown-alley
herbalist prescribed
for him on that
summer at the end,
the black water
of the profane
cupfuls meeting the
black waters that
were rising inside?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It is a beautiful poem and the smell of my grandfather's order is felt a fine wording.