You Pour Your Mercy. Poem by RIC BASTASA

draw my face when
i arrive home at night.
it will not be good to look at.
You pour your mercy.
You ask

why are you doing this?

you open the cover of the cold soup.
There are islands of solidified grease
on the plate.
Sticky rice and fried fish
beside each other.

some things are simply done
as obligations.
It is not a question of whether
another sad person
is made happy.

we seldom talk.
we keep the balance of
space and presence.
There are taboos here.
There are questions
without speaking of answers.

you hand me an exhausted face.
Rugged existence.
A simple life.
A hard bed and an open window
to see the moon.
I sit
quietly in
my own nook.

And then i write you a poem.
It will be kept for
future reference.

Death has its own
careful hands.
But you will
never know it.