So much I didn’t tell you:

women shedding clothes on my birthday, plunging

into the Pacific waves glowing from luminous algae,

how the mangosteen is the best fruit

except maybe for Japan’s white peach

or Pacific Northwest thimble berries, tart red.

 

Shouts of

“Shoe shine! Shoe shine!” in O’Hare airport,

an old guy pirouetting on roller blades

in a 7-Eleven parking lot,

the Northwest Indian legend of a man

turned into Siwash Rock as a reward for generosity.

 

The Three Sisters in Australia’s Blue Mountains

also turned to stone, this time by their shaman father

who died in battle before reversing the spell.

Cicadas big as humming birds, the sun rising on the right,

a sandal big as a couch, radio station 3RRR,

taking curves along the Great Ocean Road,

Millie the wombat clawing a furrow in the dirt

while I crooned and scratched her rump.

 

Platanos rellenos - bananas stuffed with chicken,

Lithuanian dumplings shaped like zeppelins,

twenty kinds of empanadas in Argentina,

In Spain a tortilla is a potato omelet

and horchata is made with almonds.

Squid on a stick, kaiseki - sushi in tiny chest of drawers,

a box of soy milk *hot* in Macao,

the pizza I cooked for Kyoko in a fish broiler

and Koji worrying I’d overcook the ham,

six small cups of strong oolong tea in Hong Kong

and the roar of the crowd at dim sum,

a waitress raising her voice so I’d understand Mandarin.

Farmer Yang who got a paltry $30

for discovering the Terra Cotta Warriors,

the guide in a Hard Rock Café Beijing T-Shirt

listening to the Cranberries when we drove to Ningbo,

an English teacher in a Mao jacket

who lived in Louisiana but never saw New Orleans,

Confucian scholars in Seoul waving,

the Red Army veteran who played me taped Estonian protest songs,

Santiago’s notorious beer thief, stray dogs &

men walking a dozen dogs each in Buenos Aires,

Gardelito tangoing with Lauren in the park,

a Mayan hammock peddler who taught me to say no in Yucatec,

dreadlocked teens doing Capoeira summersaults in Geneva,

the shy smile of a hotel owner herding a bunny into her room,

a monk with a gold tooth carrying an arrow in Kyoto,

the woman who ran off to a Japanese train station

and returned ten minutes later with a map to my hotel,

Kyoko’s 80-year-old father bowing

on my leaving his house of tatami and Amida Buddha.

“Please take care of yourself.”

 

Bullfights in an ancient coliseum in southern France,

a Burger King by a Roman gate in Germany,

bears in Berne, the fox in Jackie’s garden,

incomprehensible British phrases like “traffic calming”,

midsummer night - a rowboat with a torch

welcoming the sun after its brief dip under the Baltic,

parks named for poets, poets on money – a Lydia dollar,

Language is the nation. The love of their newfound freedom,

a bar and a sauna too, sauna – physician of the poor,

slot cars left there by a touring rock star ,

the owner’s dog who went with him to scout film locations

(Helsinki – Moscow’s stunt double).

 

Hong Kong – the smell of kerosene,

the longest escalator in the world,

red and blue plastic tarps everywhere,

strolling on balmy November evenings,

Hanoi Street, neon lights, dinner at an outdoor café.

 

Rolling down a hill in an inflated ball in Rotorua,

and me chief of the bus for a Maori ceremony,

Mt. Ruapeha white goddess admiring her reflection in Lake Taupo,

“It’s beautiful here,” says Lauren. “Let’s stay.”

 

— Jon Wesick