Two Poems

Poetry / Diana Keren Lee

It Is Easier to Take Steps in Your Head

Shoes must be put on, then replaced, each pair, each sole. Doors must be unlocked. As mortar and pestle grind away, the crusher acknowledges the person to be served. The tastebuds bloom. Heavy lifting requires bending at the knee. Spring is the cliché we love because flowers quell intensity. As I dream of your voice flowing along the ribbon, pigeons circle the dirt in no particular order.

Anniversary

A phone hangs on its cord,
listens to the wind.
I will not cross the bridge looking for you.
I will not call—like the dead,
you do not need any kind of lecture.
My flowers are still on your table,
your letter in my desk.
The trees, in the meantime,
practice their golden rule.

Diana Keren Lee has lived in Austin, New York, and Los Angeles. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Boston Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, Vinyl, the Asian American Literary Review, and Prelude, among other journals. She has received fellowships from NYU and The MacDowell Colony.