Jiu Gui

Jiu Gui,
the Chinese say—
wine ghost—
he who has squeezed
the fruit of life
into a cask
and made of rice
a bitter vintage.

No hunger dwells
within him now
but swells of thirst,
the whetting of his tongue,
the wedding of his throat
to wine—

four beauties danced
around his sheets unsheathed
and could not wake
his notice.

His bones have shrunk
to slender poles;
his skin has thinned
into transparency—

this squatter’s tent
his form becomes,
hollowing out,
pickled within,
housing a voice
that speaks two words:

fill me.