One white lily curves
in the niche. She turns the bowl three times
to sip. With folded napkin
she wipes her lips.

On a sampan rocking in the yellow bay
between Shikoku and Honshu
her mother coiled back her braids, tied her weights
fast to her waist
to throw herself to the waves

with other girls hurtling
through eels of light past
the rising coral’s embrace, sucked in the swirl
of breath—arms—legs to break

the water’s blackest vaults:
to gather pearls.

The woman rinses the dregs from her bowl,
rises, bows
to thank her guest.
In the morning at the bank she’ll gauge
the rise and dip of the yen.

She’ll dream a movie of twisting
weeds thighs brows
as if they could have the strength

to drag her down, to drag her down.