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Charles Bukowski - The Japanese Wife
Work rating: Low

O lord, he said, Japanese women, 
real women, they have not forgotten, 
bowing and smiling 
closing the wounds men have made; 
but American women will kill you like they 
tear a lampshade, 
American women care less than a dime, 
they’ve gotten derailed, 
they’re too nervous to make good: 
always scowling, belly-aching, 
disillusioned, overwrought; 
but oh lord, say, the Japanese women: 
there was this one, 
I came home and the door was locked 
and when I broke in she broke out the bread knife 
and chased me under the bed 
and her sister came 
and they kept me under that bed for two days, 
and when I came out, at last, 
she didn’t mention attorneys, 
just said, you will never wrong me again, 
and I didn’t; but she died on me, 
and dying, said, you can wrong me now, 
and I did, 
but you know, I felt worse then 
than when she was living; 
there was no voice, no knife, 
nothing but little Japanese prints on the wall, 
all those tiny people sitting by red rivers 
with flying green birds, 
and I took them down and put them face down 
in a drawer with my shirts, 
and it was the first time I realized 
that she was dead, even though I buried her; 
and some day I’ll take them all out again, 
all the tan-faced little people 
sitting happily by their bridges and huts 
and mountains— 
but not right now, 
not just yet.
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