I watched a documentary
about the Chinese poet,
Yu Xiuhua.
Some looked at her
and pointed.
A brain-damage
village poet, they said.
I saw persistence
in the face of suffering.
The beauty of a flower
and the pain of thorns.
Hell with words is still hell,
even in the countryside.
And her body,
wanting a touch of love.
Yet always in the dark
in a land of light.
But she had her words,
that held the blue sky,
like a sparrow.
And when her head spins
in hell’s fun house.
The words slowly circulate,
and catch the part of her,
the part of me….
That just wants to feel,
that just wants to taste
a butterfly of dreams.
A Wandering Poet 