The Other Woman

by Brett Rutherford

      after Li Yü, poem 15

The cherry petals came too late;
they carpet the steps,
but the Empress does not notice them.

I sit by the bed and tend
    the covered brazier;
its fire is almost gone
    and the tea already made
is lukewarm now.
No matter, for she has taken none.

A year already since grief arrived.
Each day that dawns
without the young prince's laughter
is as sad as the one before.

Being beautiful for me,
or for her own pleasure
seems a thing of the past.
Her face looks wrong,
the double-knotted hair
off-kilter; her eyes
are almost blank,
like the thin clouds
that mark a gloomy day.
Dried tears spot-stain
her vermilion vest.

My back is turned.
Why do I yearn so bitterly
for the younger face
that is the same face?
Why do I think of her
as I day-dream
at the window lattice?