Picking Bones from Ash by Marie Mutsuki Mockett

By Marie Mutsuki Mockett

Ghosts lurk within the bamboo wooded area outdoor the tiny northern jap city the place Satomi lives together with her elusive mom, Atsuko. A preternaturally talented pianist, Satomi wrestles with internal demons. Her fall from grace is echoed within the lifetime of her daughter, Rumi, who unleashes a ghost she needs to chase from foggy San Francisco to a Buddhist temple atop Japan's icy Mount Doom. In sharp, lush prose, identifying Bones from Ash - by way of Marie Mutsuki Mockett - examines the facility and boundaries of lady expertise in our globalized international.

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The cats watch. Sometimes he’s lonely, but the cats make it better. He likes the way they watch him, listen to him, and he likes the way he talks to them, like a regular person, like anyone else. The thought passes through his mind that he’s a good man. He wishes that someone else knew how he feeds the cats before himself. He would like to hear someone tell him that he’s a good man, a good person. He opens the can of food. The cats follow his every move. They are quiet, concentrated. They aren’t shedders or talkers.

Was that why last year, secretly and alone, she had taken herself to the tattoo 39 parlor on Locust Street, in a crummy part of town, and why now, on her right thigh, a giant green butterfly (really a moth named Luna) fluttered over a brilliant blue daisylike flower? “Not very biologically sound,” the tattoo artist had said, holding his needle suspended over her bare thigh. ” “I’m sure,” she had said, and closed her eyes, so she wouldn’t have to see the needle. 40 HER HAIR THE MAN ALWAYS looked at people’s hair.

Beauty had Googled her on the computer in the library, and she dreamed that someday she’d meet Linda Pastan—not in Mallory, that was for sure—maybe in Chicago, or New York City, which she planned to visit. She imagined her as very kind with long, beautiful gray hair. They would be at some sort of party, 36 and they’d be holding glasses of, yes, wine, and they’d talk. Beauty: I love your postcard poem, and I know it by heart. Linda Pastan: Really? Beauty: Yes. I think it’s beautiful. It always makes me happy to think about it.

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