A year ago today we celebrated the life of Mikio Shinagawa. About ten years ago Mikio, Warren and I put together an exhibit of plates to commemorate our friendship and the many years of making pottery for Omen Azen in New York City. Mikio pushed Warren and I to give poetic names to our work. He wanted us to think of them relative to resonances, perhaps thunderstorms or ice, rather than being solely descriptive about the materials and process used. He wanted us to think of our pots like constellations–allusions with stories. Mikio’s most fervent wish for himself and others was to think of providing for the next generation.
Dead Stars
Out here, there’s a bowing even the trees are doing.
Winter’s icy hand at the back of all of us.
Black bark, slick yellow leaves, a kind of stillness that feels
so mute it’s almost in another year.
I am a hearth of spiders these days: a nest of trying.
We point out the stars that make Orion as we take out
the trash, the rolling containers a song of suburban thunder.
It’s almost romantic as we adjust the waxy blue
recycling bin until you say, Man, we should really learn
some new constellations.
And it’s true. We keep forgetting about Antlia, Centaurus,
Draco, Lacerta, Hydra, Lyra, Lynx.
But mostly we’re forgetting we’re dead stars too, my mouth is full
of dust and I wish to reclaim the rising—
to lean in the spotlight of streetlight with you, toward
what’s larger within us, toward how we were born.
Look, we are not unspectacular things.
We’ve come this far, survived this much. What
would happen if we decided to survive more? To love harder?
What if we stood up with our synapses and flesh and said, No.
No, to the rising tides.
Stood for the many mute mouths of the sea, of the land?
What would happen if we used our bodies to bargain
for the safety of others, for earth,
if we declared a clean night, if we stopped being terrified,
if we launched our demands into the sky, made ourselves so big
people could point to us with the arrows they make in their minds,
rolling their trash bins out, after all of this is over?
–Ada Limón, From The Carrying (Milkweed Editions, 2018)