Sherry Okamura
Rabbits (CW: historic suicide)
In the year of the Rabbit
my half moon dance
for the ancestors.
The wrong kind of Japanese
again,
not camped enough,
apparently
not interned at all.
Kidnapped a time or two.
Given away freely,
my ancestors'
trauma bent corners
each fold proof
of their humanity,
and I'm
so white in New Orleans
and too Japanese in Idaho
they don't ask
what are you
in Portland,
as much.
Assumed I'd hafu my way through
this in-between nature
my soul's contract
a neutral agent,
baking soda of souls
but I'm no revolutionary
I'm just intensely angry
is that the secret,
is that why rabbits do it so much,
are they hate fucking?
I'm hate-thriving
a bitter, fertile weed
each unfurling gesture
against internalized inheritance.
My ancestors:
gritty as bone china,
with propensity
for jigai—
Female ritual suicide performed to preserve one’s honor.
In war invading armies would enter a home,
find the Lady of the house seated alone, facing away.
They’d find she’d achieved quick and certain death
before they even entered the building,
her legs tied together to preserve her dignity.
Women carefully taught jigai as children,
Now there’s an interesting alternative
AP Home Economics.
That invading army,
A deserting wastrel,
One mad in the forest
run away from her nest,
a fully stocked
suggestion box.
The ashen elders
pause,
dusted eons breathe,
assess
this
dancing
poet clown
bloody eyed and brittle,
with dreadful heart
(for in the end
we are all the prey)
What i ask
of you,
kind listener?
Just a step or two
in this persevering dance,
gently bowing
at the ancestors' service,
our relentless litters
seeking more purchase
because
and despite of,
their code.
my half moon dance
for the ancestors.
The wrong kind of Japanese
again,
not camped enough,
apparently
not interned at all.
Kidnapped a time or two.
Given away freely,
my ancestors'
trauma bent corners
each fold proof
of their humanity,
and I'm
so white in New Orleans
and too Japanese in Idaho
they don't ask
what are you
in Portland,
as much.
Assumed I'd hafu my way through
this in-between nature
my soul's contract
a neutral agent,
baking soda of souls
but I'm no revolutionary
I'm just intensely angry
is that the secret,
is that why rabbits do it so much,
are they hate fucking?
I'm hate-thriving
a bitter, fertile weed
each unfurling gesture
against internalized inheritance.
My ancestors:
gritty as bone china,
with propensity
for jigai—
Female ritual suicide performed to preserve one’s honor.
In war invading armies would enter a home,
find the Lady of the house seated alone, facing away.
They’d find she’d achieved quick and certain death
before they even entered the building,
her legs tied together to preserve her dignity.
Women carefully taught jigai as children,
Now there’s an interesting alternative
AP Home Economics.
That invading army,
A deserting wastrel,
One mad in the forest
run away from her nest,
a fully stocked
suggestion box.
The ashen elders
pause,
dusted eons breathe,
assess
this
dancing
poet clown
bloody eyed and brittle,
with dreadful heart
(for in the end
we are all the prey)
What i ask
of you,
kind listener?
Just a step or two
in this persevering dance,
gently bowing
at the ancestors' service,
our relentless litters
seeking more purchase
because
and despite of,
their code.
