The Laughing Body

(translations of Hiromi Ito, based on the versions by Jeffrey Angles)

I. Bad Breast

There’s a tropical rainstorm
and me, all trussed up.
The bugs are teeming and the plantlife frothing
and me, you know, all trussed up.
There’s a hot howl of wind and a white whirl of rain
and me, of course, all trussed up
with my plump and swollen breasts

so plump and swollen that all I am is breast,
fat to bursting at sunrise,
to be suckled and suckled and suckled
to a wrinkled fist of fruit by nightfall.
Round and full and good
then suckled and suckled – all of me suckled –
to an empty tank. Then I'm the bad guy.
Then I'm the bad breast.

The bugs are teeming and the plantlife froths
and me, suddenly the bad breast.

How babies plot vengeance on the bad breast!
They want to drink breast when it thunders.
They want to drink breast when the clouds skit about.
They want to drink breast in the hot howl of wind.
They want to drink breast in the white whirl of rain.

Until, at once, it stops short.
Then they go out and gather a sweet rack of yams
and they gather muddy bumps of taro root
and they gather pursed-lip bulbils
pots of rich bean jam
bundled bagworms
toasted acorns
tasty starch
more than they can carry in their crocodile fists.

Yes, of course, when it stops they’ll gather
these muddy bumps of taro root,
more than they can carry in their crocodile fists.

 

II. Harakiri

I like that motif of the cherry blossoms tumbling. I like it when they tumble in my garden. It always reminds me of my interview with ‘Mr O’, the harakiri fetishist. I was young, holding out my dictaphone like a pistol or flashlight. I asked Mr O: “Who, ideally, would you like to see commit harakiri? Someone famous? A film star maybe?”

Mr O sat in this dignified position, entirely straight-faced, as if I had asked him for a pronouncement on religion or the future. “Hmm,” he said. “Hmm. Well, I’m not sure. You see, I’ve never really thought about it.”

He crossed his arms, looked up and spoke again: “Well, I guess I’d say Jonathan Brandis. Not just because he killed himself but because I can bring to mind his face very clearly. I used to watch seaQuest DSV all the time. I can picture his expression as he takes the sword to his guts. So yes, I would say Jonathan Brandis.”

I tried to picture Brandis as Asano Naganori, in white robes, writing a poem before taking the sword to his guts.

“Okay,” I said. “Jonathan Brandis. So what would happen? Talk me through it.”

Mr O took time to ponder the question again: “Hmm, well. He’d have to be naked, I guess. And standing up.”

“Where?” I said. “Where would this happen?”

“Just let me think. In a graveyard, say. With cherry blossom all around.”

“So he'd be standing there stark-bollock naked?”

“No, not completely naked. Sorry. I mean, naked but for a fundoshi. Tied really tight so it rides up right into his crack and hugs the perineum, so you can clearly see the outline of his thing. And in the graveyard, there’d be stupas in the background. I know that’s kind of odd but you know.”

I pressed him further: “Would he suffer?”

This time Mr O didn’t hesitate: “Oh yes, he’s got to suffer. He’s got to suffer really long and hard. The idea is that he’s me.”

Then he started shifting uncomfortably. At least that’s what I thought he was doing at first. In fact, he was tossing himself off. And as he tossed off, he started chanting quietly to himself like this:

“Harakiri, harakiri, it's a beautiful thing. Oh it's masculine beauty and blood and bushido. Cherry blossoms, cherry blossoms, blood and bushido. Asano Naganori had a wonderful notion. Samurai, samurai, die a good death. Cherry blossoms, cherry blossoms, tumble, oh tumble. Asano Naganori had it right, all right. Mishima Yukio – he got there first! Stupas all over, cherry blossoms tumbling. Let me die beautiful, let me die well!”

He was knocking on for 60 at the time of the interview.

“Die like a samurai, die like a warrior. It's odd but I want to – I really, really want to. Stupas all over, cherry blossoms tumbling. I really want to do it in front of a woman. Discipline, discipline, pain into pleasure. It's odd but I really want to die like a samurai!”

I had meant to ask him if he had any samurai in his blood.

“Wanna die, wanna die in front of a woman. Cherry blossoms, cherry blossoms, blood and bushido. Stupas all over, cherry blossoms tumbling. Discipline for me, wanna discipline myself. It's odd, yes, it's odd but cherry blossoms tumble. Cherry blossoms, cherry blossoms, tumble, oh tumble!”

Then, as his face began to crease in all sorts of different ways, he produced a tantō from nowhere and drove it into his guts. And he moved it like he was stirring a thick soup. And I moved towards him. And I put my dictaphone right against his lips.

 

III. Dumplings

I make dessert dumplings,
soft as earlobes,
for me and my boyfriend.

I warm the sugar into syrup,
plunk in the freshly-boiled dumplings
and leave the lot to cool.

Then I seal them in Tupperware,
nuzzle my feet into summer shoes
and head out to meet him.

The dumplings stick to the plastic.
Their skins are somewhat torn.
I scoop them out with a spoon.

Careful! I say.
Don’t squeeze so hard
or they’ll lose their shape.

Dumplings are his favourite,
he says, stuffing his mouth with them.
He might love them more than he loves me.

I made these dumplings,
thick as our spit,
smooth as my haunch.

He closes his eyes,
chews vigorously, swallows
and licks the syrup from his fingers.

One after another.
Then we press together
our syrupy mouths

and our hands meet,
slide into a shape like love,
careful not to squeeze too hard.