CONTINUOUS POOL WITH LAMB BUTCHERS
ON THE BANK OF JING BUE LAKE
If the object ball
is going to skid
over a hard bird dropping
or crunch over a beetle shuck
you have to call it.
"The 2 ball will skate
over the little puddle
of water and slue
to the left before it drops."
Lui Fang and Lui Pang
with reflective sunglasses
deflect pins of sunlight
into my eyes as I shoot.
I try to move and they
move, too. I shoot blindly.
Of course I mostly miss.
Lake rules. If they shoot
and the ball wobbles
above the pocket
but doesn't drop
they just plunk it in
with their hands.
I keep playing because this
is the only table around.
Pang breaks. Lake rules.
Smear the balls over the felt
with your forearms making sure
a few high balls drop.
I wonder how the Lui brothers
grew up, how their mother was,
what books they read.
They're too young
for the Cultural Revolution
when there was so much cheating
you couldn't call it that,
anymore. It must be
something in the way
they make a living, all morning,
every day, glimpsing
those beautiful eyes
right before planting their feet
for the swinging of the sledge
clipping the hot vein
for the bleeding hook
then rowing the dinghy
so hurriedly across the lake
as though they were
the lamb's very essence
running from the nonsense
of its own body
then to the inevitable
afternoon slab
just in time for
the little hearts and kidneys
to plug a billiard basket.
I keep playing.
I'll try a throw shot
into the corner. The 10 ball
will trace the old rip
in the felt and then drop.
Pang's head appears
just above the pocket, Fang's
above his. Now they
clinch tiny mirrors
between their teeth as well.
They've snared a powerful
shimmer off the lake.
I move. They move, too.
I move again. They move, too.
Then they wag their heads
like strobes. The felt
and the air are awash
with stars. Moving won't help.
I have to shoot straight
into the light. I do
and the ball drops.
In the last good sun
they joggle, shooting
balls off the table,
running new rips
into the felt. They maneuver
the mirrors closer
and closer. I keep playing,
shooting now, eyes shut.
Finally the sun begins to set.
Quickly the glasses grow
dull, only a few faint
reflections of sails,
gulls and white pines.
They roll a burlap cover
over the table and tell me
to come tomorrow after work
when the light is best