Visiting the Dowager

 by Brett Rutherford

     adapted from Li Yü, poem 14

What does this old woman know
     that I do not?
I am Emperor of Everything
     but cannot translate why

her hair, already streaked with gray,
falls to her shoulder in disarray,
or why the furrow between
her eyebrows is deeper yet
than what it was before.

What cause has she
to be unhappy?
She has her own servant,
an out-of-the-way
pavilion well-situated.
She wants no company.
Many are unaware
she is still alive.
Comfort surrounds her.
I pay my respects
at suitable intervals.

Putting aside the gifts
I brought for her —
green tea, a scroll
with my new poems,
and a fine crackle-glaze
vase with dragons —

I aim a gaze, quizzical
and open my hands,
imploring her. Instead
of addressing me,

she leans one cheek upon
one opened hand, pale
as a bamboo shoot,
and then inclines her head,
eyes shut,
toward the residence.

Word came to her just now,
as she leaned over the balcony.
Servants below have passed
it all to one another in a string
of echoes. Through tears she says:

“Son of my son,
go to the Empress —
your child has died.”