On the Back of the Dragon: Poems by James Penha

8/14/2019 On the Back of the Dragon: Poems by James Penha

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Cover and Title Page Artby

Christine Alexander-Messer

Copyright 1992by Omega Cat press

All rights revert to creators upon publication

ISBN 0-9631755-1-3

$5.00

Omega Cat Press904 Old Town Court

Cupertino, CA 95014-4024


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BORNEO ORDINATION

Bless my chickensand this cornraised to the painted priest

who holds all earswith his prayersin lingua Dayakstraining even through the latticesto his temple of palmsto chantsbehind the gamesof the longhouse boyswho breathe the smoldering cloves,sip Sprite from cups of coconut,and scratch beneath sarongs

to relieve themselves of notesthey bet in Bahasauntil they hear father priest callthe bullcrowned with flowers and ribbonsfrom its throne of branches.

They tether the beast to a stakeand draw their daggers high.The best of them slides off his sunglassesand sarong,

accepts the torchfrom father priest,enlightens the tail of the bullwho circumscribesa circle perfectlybefore the tribealters its orbitsinuously with their blades.Father priests procession to the centersilences the pumping ironsave for the fist of the naked young man

who cuts the throat of the bull,fills his hands with bloodand paints himself a newapostle.

This is thanksgivingin Mancung.


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AIR PLANT

Orchid thrives in the forestand its perfume is undiminishedby the absence of the people.

-Hung Ting-chien11th Century

Sweet syllablesmade my tiller handmove up the Mahakam Riverround meandering logschewed to wipethe lips of Western dinersand their nosessenselessly--so from Melak like hungry antswe had to walkto find Borneo farfrom its watery highwayto Kersik Luway whereDayak cousins refreshed mewith rice and restas one of the tribal hundredhuddled odorously in the longhouse

hidden finally in the forestbefore at dawn we made for the magic placewhere I saw the black orchidI had always known must livemore withthan on its tree.

I could not touch it, butI see the sacred land and faceand smellthe black orchid

still over the airplanefoodand napkins . . .refuse.


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BALIHIGH SEASON

When Salimi asks me to walk

down Kuta Beach in cock seasonI dobecause shes so funny,all the storieslike how a handsome Dutchoffer one thousandafter she suck himand she scream,One thousand rupiah? Giveme forty thousand or I call the police.But I only have one, say the Dutch.So insulting,

Salimi says,

No oneever offer me only one.

So Salimivery dramatic, you know,with his hands folded on his chestlike he sings Indonesian opera,you know, says she likes the Dutchand hopes to see him again,so he asks for his watch.And the Dutch he give it him.Really, Salimi wears it

when he asks me to walkand I did.Salimi hopes to see the Dutchin front of the Bali Oberoiwhere he take him the night before.Salimi says Dutch are honestand want one boy only.

Like Wayan. A Dutchpromise to send him moneyso he could go to Hague,

but when he get letter,he see lines in red.Wayan almost cry.I ask Salimi about the letterbut they dont read Dutchor English.I tell him I translate,the red parts are important,


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but Salimi says Wayan throwthe letter away.

We find the Dutch at Oberoi.Oh, he is so old and fat and wears

a suit that shows his bum.Salimi asks the time. Ha.The Dutch has friend, a Westerner,old but a nice body, not so hairyor paleand he asks us to sit. I sitbut say I must go home.Salimi says I am stupid in Indonesianbut I say back I have you.He asks if you send moneyand I say yes but I dont care

about money. I careabout love.

I dont know what happen with the Dutch,but tonight I see Salimiin a dress walking with Italian. Not gaybecause Salimi does not say helloeven when I yellfrom across the street, Sally!Sally! But as the Italianputs her in his jimny, she throws me

a big smileand Igo home to write to you.

Oh, and guess what,she still wears the watch.


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CHOLER

satu.

AT&T countsmy bounces to Bali off satellites:sneezing still? seenwhom, met, this week? likeLou Reed cassette I sent? Feelokay? worked our van? Love mestill wait for me? I hearechoes behind answers.

dua.

At Cafe Europa in Yoyga I daredFerdy forsake ricefor pasta.His dark eyes squint-hidden sang to a minstrels

accented Shadowof Your Smileuntil it did.The guitarist approached, held Ferdy fastwith a nosey Balinese twangto his Indonesian, releasing

only with a breathFerdy to explain acquaintance.I offered Bintang beer and when Madeemptied our bottle to half his glass,he poured on our bill another two big drafts,renewed dialogue.

I interpreted Ferdymyself precision-tooled to hand and faceand the stray cognate.An odd steel saw;rare quiver heard;

missed his syntactic gigglewith friends.Ferdy leaned to me on wrists,but Mades tourist Englishkept us to spaghetti talk, twines,twirls and sucks.

So you visit beach? Yes,tomorrow. Bemo? No, we have a van. Rental? No.


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Ah. I ate a chilied meatball to more musicof Indonesian til Ferdy said Made asks to join us at thebeach,but we dont know,do we, what time we go? No.

Not really, no, I, no,we dont, no.Hint of two languages taken,

Made leftempty bottles and knottednoodles cold.

I hate him, I did ask himto have some beer.

Ferdys glances gathered us aloneamong the diners.

Hes prostitute in Bali.

A month ago he go with English. After they make sex,they argue about money,English tells Madehe has AIDS, so Madekills English with knife,takes money, runs to stay with boyson the beach who tell me story.Then Made is gone, no one knows where.Now we know.I promise him to tellno onenot you even.

Shall we leave Yoyga?We just go early to beach, okay, oh, but I wish

I dont see him.

tiga.

Six months beforein Jakarta BorobudurI tempted Ferdy to fondueand anniversary champagne.

Beside us a loud Americanparty explored earthin the time of AIDS,Ferdy drank wine til he couldnt thinkor touchthe melted cheese.


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empat.

I risked time two in Bali,American Thanksgiving,to prove Ferdy

mine. We dinedagain at Orchid Garden on spicy prawnsand Ferdy assured me he missed me so muchthat as he entered a young Javanese he thoughtonly of me.Fuck the shrimp!When he found me in the blacksof sea sand,I screamedin whispers, damnedhis magic powerless

in Western winds and soontheyll eat hamburgers hereand death follows.

But why are you angry?

lima.

The day we methe took me for sateand sticky rice in banana leaves

after we had shared ourselves with the sunset long outside a templewhere he chanted and dancers swayedbarefoot in fireto the gamelandeaf to the painand the beat of the bassfrom the disco down the street.


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SKELETONS IN THE CLOSET

Days after I fell in with Baliand him,

I asked Ferdyeverything else. Oh,I knew from the firstnight he wasnt Balinese--but Muslim,for Indonesia Jews are rare.From North Sumatramy tribe is Batak.

Cannibal! I screamed,held my crotch

and rolled awayacross the mattress.

Yes, but we eatenemies only. I staredback smiling to his slight selfsnug in the moons shadowlike a golden Labradorallowed at lastto enjoy the bed. So be nice.

In Jakarta, I talk with Batak wordsfor we are famousas fierce. We fightso hard the Dutch.Si Singamangaraja is national hero,our chief who kill many Dutchbefore they kill him.

I knew this,tried to remember how.

Maybe you read in guidebook.

In the middle of the night,like an obscure movie title that evadesme at dinner,it came:

My father found my hand,


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hiding in a pocketoutside the hospital,sweating still from the skeleton who had held it,called my nameas i ran.

Once your grandpa was strongand scary in other ways.In the Dutch East India Army, he wonmedals for uncommon valor.You should besuch a man.

I wiped my eyes, lookedbehindand woke Ferdy

with a fearsome hug.

Hey, be nice,he warned me.


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THE APPRENTICEA Letter from Java

Thanks for your letter again,

comes with specialof wonderful words. I wantto hearing the often it.

I am not take bearingon this paperfor we had speaking. There--is make me happy.But I get un-derstood between language and style.So I have similar conclusion,

the expression of human psychology:We are speaking before I am sorry again.

I used the border of the language.Do you know?

Why I looking about youastonished of my works?Thanks of your flattery,I am living on the sky.

I hope you dont afraid

the new batiksis already you prefer.Please,give me timesfor idea to the betterworks between of the works hadmay have it.

I want to show the best.You will delicious

of the new.May you heavenlymore happiness to me.

Enormous!You that like the young manever lookedsomething wonderfully on this world.


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To separate yourself from your countryalso the family yourself.Within I think its impossibleand so I cant say of flattery,exception

to put up my thumb!

What is your broken homebecause you want free to live?Difference of people in Java,usually they want to marryfor futre oriented.

But for meI am wrestling with the hot waxand to frighten!

I am sorry to drudge of you, you are happiness.Maybe I cant return help for you,but coming soon, I will sendthe other styles of my batiksto take pleasure in your heart.

I feel sad during this monthI forget my obligationand also my special dutywhich is untidy.

I am sure you worry.

And the sadnessthat you wiatfor my servicedoesnt come yet.I should go to do my job.I should have worked hard.So I was boredbecause not free.

In essence,I was lonely without you.

The event of language to use myself,maybe Ill wordlessif I am speaking directlybecause I havent more the words.The language of dictionary in I used it,


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know is means it!

Please tell mewith the wonderful words again.

Terima kasih. Sincerely,Roto

PS I am sorry if my wordsdo not take pleasure in your heart.


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EBBTIDE

Yes, replied the professor as we stopped somewhere along the PeronPeninsula on the coast of Western Australia, what you see covering the beach is,in fact, stromatolite, the oldest fossil on the planet. Alive at the dawn of time, itexcreted the atmosphere we breathe.

Stromatolite hidesin death,sludge,safely on a strip of beach.It livesatop its history,unmoved

but meters toward the highway.

Stromatolite yieldsto my trodin the soft securityof forebearance.Wrenching,I finger,separate to seeveins of green.

Stomatolite seesamidst the pilewithout eyesthe sun,feeding earth.

Stromatolite mournsnot its death.It givesway withoutanger, regret--

bodhi dharma--to the solesof my shoes.


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ALTERED STATES

A JOURNEY THROUGH OUR COLLECTIVE UNCONSCIOUS

I Richardwho like myself fromparentswho teachAborigine like myselfI teach Jason whothreeto like

myself I likemy wifeJenny very much.

The Mimis, theylivein the linesof the Rock theytell us this whenthey painttheir prints

in Zwischenraum;the printsof our handswe see in bloodwhen we awakeneach eclipse.And when I was a dreamof Namagunthe Mimis gavethemselvesto me.

The Rockfloats on the river no personno womanno manknowsfrom the land which it shaded beforeTapara tempted thedohada Waijai


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and killed Jinani andme.And the River itcalls my Rock Jasonand Jenny and me

back for it tiresof its cooling.I shall walk across the seawhen it is no more seawhen I am no more man.

Dragon Java SumatraPapua JayaBali breaksmy heartback

into fibers.I forget myselfand drink the sea,breathe fire,expirein spire,againlook to the Marege cross,

*respire,*

in spire*

and*

grind*grind.

Icmyselfin hollowsof my home.

Romeo, Irush to the edge


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of Jeddasleap, seethe great plainsand the Katherine.

I see Parukuparliand paint him in meon the wallsof my cavewith my bloodoffered to himon the floor of the forest.It was my initiationand when the old men saw,they gave me foodfor a week and set me

to walkaboutwithout Parukuparli I

cared notto eat, soughtthe whirlpoolof the gorgeas Namagunordained,listened to the swirl

soundof the waves withYukio.

Humpty Doo:Armavirumque canoand the missus Jeannieof the NeverNever.

Once I beginPeterI cant stop withChristmas. It raisesme on thermalsbeyond London tocrocodiles tickingwith the hands


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of menand time.

I see through crocodilewaters Eden

of once. I knowa place where dreamsare made, where dreamsmake.How can I stopat childhoods eternalprelude onceI see the caveswith Mimistoo real to castshadows? I

dream in tenses,verbalize,name predicates.Whats the holidayto sayto seethe seedin mind,to seethe mindin seed.

31 December?If I can movefrom midnightbackOr listen:hosanna so higholySaturday.The palindrome

of limbo:Fridayto EasterEasterEaster.Im only flying.Jeannie knows morein her states.


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In MatarankaI find an olivetreecut into its flesh

reveal the seedhard.It stinks of fruit.The seed will notbearbut if I smell itwith my eyeso that the clouds streakedwith ionic lightemanateI miss

the sun.

The cycabis mens business.She may not grindits nut. I showher and place itin the earthssandstone womb.I roll itwith my hand

and sniff poisonon my palm.Press.My boomerangcannot fly against the trees.the fire must come.

(There is a birdon the Yellow Waterwho leaves her mateto hatch

as she seeksanothers seed.)

Parukuparli he seeWaijai return in handof Tapara and sohe say thatWaijai she do wrong


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and Eve she feels shameand knew that shewas naked.Parukuparli he take hisbaby Jinani and he suck

the air right out of that babys blood.If the tree be rotten,

so be the fruit.Waijai she cry.Tapara he beg Parukuparliplease forgive Waijaifor eating of the tree. Taparahe coild his tonguesaid he could inspireWaijai but Parukuparlihe love his baby

so he not let it live.Parukuparli made thena mark upon Taparawith his rattan caneand Tapara he ashamedand leaped to the eastwhere he shine over the escarpmentstill.Parukuparlitake then his childand walked to the west

to the sea and gaveit upto the cyclone below. Andthus man died butParukuparli he livein the dreamtime.

Kate, I shall holdyour busy contoursthat once I dugand probed and made

mine.Too golden toremain.

Give me nine yearsof release.I shall chew yourhills to find


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essence,digest themwith arsenic and coconut,excrete the waste,and bury the bile

from my eyes.When I have yougleamingand glazed in bricks,golden,oh, how I shalladore you,Kate, ored,refined,beautiful. Foolsshall recreate

in the space youneed no longer.

Break awayan incheach fortnightof years.Sashyourselveswith names Wayan,Mad, Nyoman,

Ketut.

Gigauan:Iturn out the lightget off the streetsthrow rocksfrom the templeand dreamof RamaShinta

Cinta Ramaand listenonly to the mantras of the gods:in their templesgrowing greenin the darkof treesand the new year


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movedby centimeterstoward the backof the dragonfrom which empire

bendsto empire,jackto hammer,all in reds,whites,blue.

Gigau:in Ching Chung Kooncemetery,

incense poursin front of homelyprints of the decadesdead.The smokesickens and the oldladies in glassesto hide the ochreof their eyespull bandagesfrom balls

of cottonsweepsweepsweepin plastic glovesprintlesslyunthreateninglyto sterilitygrindgrindgrind.

And their childrentake photographsclickclickclickin digitsto wait


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in drawersfor a centimeter.

Impian:Ganbulabula

holds backhis land, embraces earthempathizeswith theminto the yam.The people theyplayuffdaon the didgeridooand see the yamopen its eyes

with them.


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STIGMA 1989

In Tiananmens youthI petted childrenwho would terrify ancients,

watched them build a bold frailtywith scraps.Smiles carried me to a tent where Guo confirmedYou are American?He grasped, held tightlymy hand in hisleft upon his naked chest.With the right,he took a knifeand before I was askedor needed to think

to speak,he slashed our indexfingers and they stained his belly,pants, his toes, my shoesand he held my handuntil I felt one scabbetween us.I need to have the bloodof freedom in my veinsbefore I die.

Home in Hong Konga Saturday later,I searched on tvthe Squarefor the sign of my life.


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BORDER INCIDENTNORTH OF CHIANG RAI, THAILAND

Upon his hill of poppies,

I stared an Akah piper into the smileof a bargain I cachedwith Crest and K-Ytil after dinneranother brought twovirgin headdresses fit only for memories--baht--venerable mother sold her handsto trek-bound American musclesas Akah lads toured bottlesof Mekong whiskey brought from Bangkok.

They sought the glassand with my nodwe drank our way to doorprizesthey won,then passed their turnswith weed.

Stars I sawsparked by coffeepot flameson the horizon of brown browswho made that night my hut

their village nomad.

Awu on whom I lame had leanedto this peakpicked my pack for the poppys essence,spun it on the wheelof whiskey and grass.

Soon I spoke Akah,heard jokes,punned in tribal talk,

and lost breathfor the laughter.

When Awu grabbed my neck in English,I waved off translation, sensed smiling wordsunlaughed and saw civilization--tubercle--he held me.


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Humming disco ahead of Akah screams,Awu led me afieldwhere each poppyreflected but one star

extinguished now by bodieslit insteadwith ancient fire.


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SALA DAYS

I sleep and seeme dancing round the sala, around

my neck the blue sash danglesdamply til it swirls in timealive in the breeze I createand I follow its flight to finda partner, this boywhose left hand contortedlygloved in black graceswith drama the night.Other faces spin familiar as wellwith scarves on air, handsarcing oddly from wrists and legs

strutting,pressing the floor of the sala.What happens here beyond the collectionof sweat on my forehead?I sit at the edge of the sala, stare,recall

when first Thai sundewed my morning, the salaoffered shade, a cool stair,room to listen,

see

from the back the old man looksold, hunched,but disappears into bamboo.I hear a cock crow, solook at my watch, but dawn has soundeda quarterday before.

I hear the rain, but see only the old onerolling a cart across gravel. I hear

leaves in the wind, but seedots of percolating flies. I hearrain, but the old manbears the hose, tricklesin congruence, a swirl with his swayupon each plant,flower,precisely,


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he cares for his garden.


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BAR BOY

Not until Thursdaydid Dang drunkenly

top off my Mekongwith some historyof the youngman beside me.

Thai tonestrick me,and Dang had taught himEnglish only practically--showersauna

massagedollar--so when that night the boy devouredme stinking of steamwith love

I couldnt askhow he thoughtof the Golden Trianglewarwhen starving

he sucked lifefrom snakes,from rats,from the comradefallenfor him.


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SHERPA STORY

Nardu abandoned sight of the portersbearing tents and cabbages,

water and household gods,but never of my running shoes balanced on ridgesfrom Pokhara to Naudanda.There, he rested when I relished roasted muttonbut refused raw salad. (Boil it,Id read, peel it,or forget it.)Nardu wandered as I dealt with the husbandmen,advised me once to treat the children of Nepalnot as beggars:Give them medicine, not money.

He kept his eyes on my Niked feetwhen inclined to the Himalayas;I gazed on ancient terracesgreen with spring,glacier decks,and, adapted to my pace,two decades etched by crystal windsdeeply into the faceof the sherpa boyman. I slidthrough those crags across timberlinesure that his smile might save me:

he took me to the plateau at dawnto see the sun recreate from fogthe fishtail form of Macchapucchare;Nardu breathed deep and said he tookonce a German party. It rainedat base for twenty days.They had but twenty-five.We would not make the peakor should notwith the weight of rain.I led them down but one

decided on his ownhigher destiny.He slipped:there. Nardu pointed;his bare toes kicked my right foot.Good shoes?

The best I own,I lied and stared


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at the valley.


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A RIDDLE OF NEPAL

You cannot escape one infinite, I told myself, by fleeing to another; you cannotescape the revelation of the identical by taking refuge in the illusion of themultiple.

--Foucaults Pendulum

If everything on earth were rational, nothing would happen.--The Brothers Karamazov

He was placed beneath the diamond-tree and trembled when he saw his ownlikeness.

--a Nepalese riddle

Off Durbar Square, my eyes deferred to the dark, mandalawoven within white woolenough for its young dealerto drape an arm round my shoulder,You look for carpet? Much inside. You will

join me? Come.I glimpsed behind him a doorwayto a doorway. My shopis up the stairs. Many

beautiful carpets. Please.His naked smile took me upand I followed his white linenscinched tightly into a black shirt.Two flights above Ganga Path,he unlocked a timberland,rolls of felled fabric,piles of rug. I am Pudmastepping off his flip-flops; I satto shuck sneakers. He waved mea red pillow, faced me,

descended, cross-legged, languorouslyupon a roll,leaped upright, Some tea!A moment. Returned, Pudma presented the warm glass.Through a settling storm of leaves,I watched clothes sinkagain, face erasedchromatically to tea.


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I drank. Pudma asked, You takea day of shopping? You travel Kathmandualone?I set the glass down, Shall I fear?No, drink. I did.You take a day of shopping then?

I return from Kumari Bahal.Ah, you have seen the living goddess.Yes. For a moment, for a rupee, the kumaristood at her window for me.Was it a value for you?I am a student of religion.Hindu?Of religion. I studyto be a priest.You know the story of kumari?Yes.

. . . how the spinners of goldoffer the jewels of their flesh,

their daughters, to the priests visionfor the kumaris skin must shinewithout like a gem.Yes. . . . balance of eyes,one to the other, and bothto the halos of breasts,slope of fingers, toes.Yes. . . . kati ho from the bellto the anus you say.You know much of this.

I do . . . and she must stretchto a wheel perfect,like the drawing of Leonardo you know.Yes. . . . for she must be the mandalaherself . . . incarnate you say.Yes.So you saw the kumariand paused at my mandala . . . The carpet.It is no accident you say.Perhaps.Ha! you have so much to learn, student, I say. But see.Pudma rose, reached from a far walla roll he snapped with fists and it flewa ceiling and billowedbetween usupon the floora vast pictureof the power of the sun. Come


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sit at the mandala with me.Beautiful, I feltthreads of golden silk,knots of scarlet woolin my palms,

transfixed flowers upon brancheswithin leaves upon atoms withinaureoles upon petals within galaxies of circlesupon circles uponcircles uponOm mani padme hum.Pudma saw me hear and held his mantraand my question, What does it mean?It is what are you called?Thomas.It is Thomas

what we say of carpets:If you must ask,you cannot afford it. You will bea Christian priest?A Catholic priest.All the same.Not at all.All the same. The wheel,watch where you sit. The wheelhas many faces, but one body,one center only. This point,

he pointed his toe,is Hindu. This moment,he pressed my foot tightlyto a facet so I knewthe dyes, is Catholic.One wheel.One wayto the center.For a manwho has three gods, your wayis stingy.One god,three persons. One god.A triangle you say.Trinity.Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva.It is not the same.One wheel.One way to the center.Pudmas laughter hit high CI think then cascaded in guffaw. And itas much as tautology sent me back,back sprawled on the carpet


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hysterically.The resistance of my breast to Pudmas handssnapped my neck,my eyes open to his staringseriously.Your eyes Thomas.

Yes?Each has an extra circle . . . and widened.Yes. Lenses. Contact lenses? I leanedup on elbows, averted to seePudmas erection strut his pantaloons.He flicked open a smaller rugand like the torerodanced behind it, asked,Do you like this? woven head of a buffalo upon the torso

of a man. I shookmy head. . . . if the girlkeeps her head when actors in such masksterrify her, it is proven:only she is kumari.And so she remainsuntil she bleeds from woundsor womanhood.Yes. But then?She retires rich and freeto marry.As former goddess?

Unprepared to be the wife of a makerof rugs. Bad luck,it is said. Some sayher husband must die young.And so she lives alone?She marries such a one as I.Yes?Yes.One who does not believe.One who believes all: Kumari,

she is kanya kumari, is Parvati, is shakti,is Shiva.She is Shiva?Shiva: Shiva Bhairav, Shiva Rudra, Shiva Mahadeva,Shiva Ishwara, Shiva Pashupati, Shiva the Destroyer,Shiva the Creator, Shiva the Lord, Lord Shiva,She is Shiva.Pudma moved to another roll. Unfurlinga busy design spun round a copulation, Pudma


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smiled, You know yab-yum? Wine, flesh, fish, women,sexual union: these are the five-fold boons that removeall sin.Tantra.Tantra. Feel the carpet twist now Thomas.

The carpet Shiva.The wheel Tantra.Yab-yum with kumari,Shiva shakti whois Shiva: I touch godto weave kumari. With ShivaI am woven.Yab-yum: Shakti and man are threads. Nowshall I worry to diewhen I am woven of Shiva?Pudmas hands let the rug curl at my feet

for as he chanted his hands let arcs meetas his legs, The cock you say.No.Your word then.Tell me.The lingum:Shiva you see on our temples.Yes. . . . everywhere carved in our valley. Yes.You see the lingum.Yes.

His clothes lay with the carpetsaround his chest I saw beadsand around his ankles. And withlingum flaired against the ventral planeI might believethe friezes that marked my path through his city.You will know god a wayupon the Tantra? You will

join me in god?Upon the mandala Thomas.

Are you afraid still to bleed?Yes.It recalls death?Yes.Does god not bleed?Yes.

Thomas closed his eyes in silence,


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lifted the cupand blessedbefore ithe consumed.He wiped dry with his cuff.

Had his tale ended? I wondered.Go from me in peace.Where am I?

The story?Yes.With god.In church?Then?Now!The Manglo Pub.With god?

With me, babu Tom.I am beyondsin. More wine, I think. You will

join me?


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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

James Penha lives now in Jakarta, Indonesia.

The author appreciates the prior appearance of some of these poems in the

Black Tie Press anthology American Poetry Confronts the 1990sand in thejournals Bristlecone, Hawaii Pacific Review, Verve, and Xenophilia.

Documents

On the Back of the Dragon: Poems by James Penha