Michio Ito’s Fox & Hawk

Ito ran to a window. He danced.

He howled. He cursed the moon,

interned in a camp before he was

carted on a ship back to Tokyo.

Hadn’t he almost died for art

the evenings he ate bread soup?

If he wished to forget those days

& nights dancing in drawing rooms

in London, or translating Fenollosa’s

notes on Noh, he’d have to unbraid

himself from At the Hawk’s Well,

& then let go of the Egyptian

mask Dulac painted him into —

claws, beak, feathers, & legend.

Why did that silly boy tell a story

about his grandmother weeping

when she first saw him dressed

in his grandfather’s samurai armor

to hold the gaze of Lady Cunard?

He was again studying the fox

holding a biscuit in his hand,

saying, “I went to a great hill

in Hampstead & I made my soul

into the soul of a fox.” Finally,

he would let go of his Europe,

& not think of those he loved

& taught, Isadora lost. Now,

powerless & alone, he dances

his ten steps again & again,

wanting to know if a hawk

could peck the eyes out of a fox.