a tribute to “Tour” by Carol Snow
As we stroll around the pond near
the vacant lot, we notice a
rotting mouse on a shrine
of tulips along the banks. In
another life, the mouse might’ve ruled Japan,
an emperor in tan sandals and red robes, clothes he’d
have cleaned twice a week, his temples swept
daily: cherry blossom petals floating on the
wings of brooms to form a path
to a family of gold statues. He’d have eaten mackerel and
practiced calligraphy in the rising sun. Then
he’d have his long hair brushed with a brush placed
in a bamboo box by his bed. We imagine Camellia,
his mistress, petting his head as her smile blossoms
like a field of orchids. He might’ve lived happily there,
on his sparkling throne, surrounded by loyalists or—
we fear—by the treacherous. His mouse face shivers as we
picture his emperor body sprawled, naked and lifeless. Had
he been less trusting, Camellia would’ve had no
opportunity to slash his throat on his way
to the window to gaze at the white kimono of
the moon. We hope he was a fast mouse, knowing—
although never seeing—how fast mice can be. If alive, perhaps he’d
impress us with his leaps into the underbrush, fronds swept
back by the swing of his tail. If so, in a future life, the
mouse may become a monk in a faraway temple, making a path
to a vacant shrine with the swing of a broom, a path between
gold statues of men long since fallen,
their names familiar to all like the sweet fingers of camellias.
