I want to give myself to you as wholly
as the Mongolians sing, from their whole body outward
bending to you, the brass cup and flowing white scarf offered
in their hands, saying take me. Drink.

I want to be to you, vast
as fields of yellow rapeseed bright
and indolent, piercing as the poplars
that line the roads silvering
into distance—empty
yet full of a quivering energy, transformative
as Tao.

The men come home down the side of the road
at sundown, loose and bronze, carrying hoes,
wearing burgundy and indigo sweaters patterned
like the land: looking up incuriously, they don’t
have any use for me. The bus
plays chicken with trucks heavy
with the harvest: there’s only one lane
each way but no one in Mongolia
will back down—it’s like the wrestling, you strain
till one of you falls flat, jars
the earth—and I want to come at you
as unswervingly, I want
this impact.

© 1999 by Inara Cedrins