The Empress, Alone

 

by Brett Rutherford

     after Li Yü, poem 16

She has given up waiting.
In lamplight, her face
will not even fill a mirror:
a sliver of brow and cheek
glow pale, like the new moon’s
sickly crescent.
                           To do her hair,
with that elaborate coif
of cicada and phoenix,
that once so pleased him,
the jade pin, and the silver
one, lay ready on her table.
She picks them up.
She puts them down.

What is the use?
He is watching somewhere,
or someone is watching
on his behalf.

"Tell me: Is the Empress unhappy?"
"Tell me: Does she bother
to make herself presentable?"

The lazier she grows,
the more disheveled she is,
the less he is likely
to come to her.

Can she give him
another heir?
Does she want to?
No one even asks.

The double curtains
that brought him unannounced
so many evenings
into her chamber,
are as still as stone.

Her eyes dart up and out
to the palace and its terraces.
No lights. All are asleep.
He did not choose her.
He did not choose anyone.

He will not come. 

As the flower fades,
as the fickle wind
goes where it wills,
all must change without her.

When a wheel turns,
the axle is compelled to follow,
as it draws up water
from the golden well.

Will she drink,
or will she leave the cup
unemptied?

It is better to have wine,
and to wake up forgetful.
Will the morning sun care
that she begged for Spring?

Worrying is worse
than any sickness.