Karen An-hwei Lee: California Poets Part 11, Five Poems

Karen An-hwei Lee (photo by Kayla Smith)

October 20th, 2026

California Poets: Part XI

Karen An-hwei Lee

Five Poems

HAYAZAKI EARLY BLOOMER

If there are late bloomers in the sakura-zansen, then early bloomers or hayazaki must exist, whether in the hydrangea or among the riverside cherry blossoms. This year, in the high desert, where oddly enough one of the lowest places on this planet exists below sea level, the Joshua Tree bloomed earlier this year so early before winter possibly due to the rains. Death Valley changed into a lake, not a mirage, and strangers kayaked across it like a wadi ravine normally dry outside the rainy season. The Joshua tree is pollinated by only one living creature in the whole world, the yucca moth.

The yucca moth, who carries the Joshua pollen upon her powdery little chin, did not show up when the Joshua bloomed early. The Joshua blossoms bore no fruit; without fruit, no seeds—sadly, the Joshua was childless this year. For a moment, I am weary, or rather, I feel that the clockwork of the world is out of synchronicity with itself. The Joshua, despite her desert resilience in surviving lightning strikes and raging droughts, paid a dear cost for her early achievements like a child mathematician whose later career was eclipsed by the elegant proofs of her girlhood.

If there are late bloomers,

then what is an early bloomer—

what is to be gained?

THE STAIRCASE

On an overcast day, I made my way on the edge of the street that ends by the cliff with green things and the powerful surf roaring in the bones. I walked all the way down the sea cliff stairs, clinging to the steel railings doused with spray during the king tides when the gravitational pull is the strongest, pulling towards the moon and sun aligned on this side of the planet.

Downward, I made my journey until I met rock—so enormous, it was nearly an abstraction.

The hard, vertical shale, about seventy million years old, gave rise to sandstone, then little green things—sea figs or sea lettuce, the red-tinctured sea lavender, and even a tiny pine with a daring curve fringed the shelves only the width of a pencil case, cascading in tresses, lashed by spray.

The power of the sea shook my wrists; less than fish, we are rags, shells, and crushed hurricane glass cast upon the boulders while green things endure. How could the small, living things persist with so many years of iodine’s rough, aqueous caress?

When I emerge at the top of the stairs, the prophet is waiting with a small terrier mix who has put his whole head in the jasmines and bougainvillea, unbothered by thorns. The little dog carries grains of rice on his face from breakfast; he does not love the ocean, vastly preferring sea gardens from a safe distance.

From the staircase of the roiling sea, I recall the words of Mary Oliver—

Ín water that departs forever and forever returns, we experience eternity.  

AZÚCAR

On a rainy morning before Christmas Eve, the nearby library branch is closed, and people make a beeline to a seaside bakery for guava marmalade pastries—my favorite bakery whose name is sugar in Spanish—plus a glass of cortadito with a bit of hot milk. To satisfy the incorrigible sweet tooth, a long line goes out the door under the awning. It’s raining, so there’s no outdoor seating today.

By the display cases in front, people lift their pastry boxes in the air, taking away rows of pastelito de guayaba con queso; miniature papas rellenos; picadillo meat pies with olives, raisins, onions, tomatoes, and garlic spiced with cumin, cinnamon, and oregano; salted pistachio cakes with rich lemon cream—

Pear almond cream tartlets;

egg quiches in croissant dough;

coconut shortbread crusts;

a toasted marshmallow divina            

with passion fruit seeds;

a cake named dark corner;

a thing with pomegranate pips;

espresso sweetened            

with cane sugar.

If I could, I’d wear buttery yolks in the shapes of barrettes in my hair, rejoicing in their solar promises of happiness while I linger by Azúcar with her bright, key lime walls, a place where children enjoy cookies specially made in the shape of a dog named Manolo. In this order of the diacritical cosmos, an accent aigu can take the form of a mint leaf if we crave mint, unless the word is basil or bamboo.

THE ADVENT POMEGRANATE

We walk past a house on the beach bluffs;

in a front yard, a pomegranate tree to the side.

It’s winter, close to the turning of the year, yet a solo pomegranate hangs on the branches like a crimson ornament, an Advent blessing—I draw closer to see its rind split open, ruptured, with the segments of blood rubies suspended in the air, as if in distress—operatic, bodily, and the bees—the prophet sees one famished winter bee hovering to feast on the nectar.

Intently, I look yet the bee evades my gaze—

the prophet’s eyesight is keener than mine.

BERKELEY ROSE GARDEN

Before the invasions, the blind woman and I made a pilgrimage to the rose garden on a hot day. Why I decided so late in the afternoon to hike up the hill on the northside, I can’t remember. Partway there, it occurred to me that it wasn’t the optimal season to see the roses in bloom; the garden would lie dormant, full of dead-headed roses for months of the year, some leaving their hard, dessicate hips under the radiant load of the sun.

When folks ran out of black tea and sugar,

they boiled rose hips and leaves to drink.

By the time we reached the terraced rose garden on the hill, the blind woman was ready to sit in the shade of a trellis—one of many, and not surprisingly, devoid of roses. In fact, the entire hillside was covered with decapitated rose canes and flowerless vines. No prize-winning floribunda, no hybrid tea roses, no double roses, and no roses of Sharon.

The off-season rose garden also reeked of bone meal, stinking of fertilizer in the broad daylight. The blind woman said, the government built this garden to provide jobs during the Great Depression; a community beautification project. It is beautiful when it’s in full bloom, I said. I forgot about the ugly season.

Don’t worry about it, she said. I’ve visited this garden before, and I can feel the terraced, stone amphitheater below my feet, sloping downward to the brook, and the semicircular red pergola. I can see over a thousand rose bushes carrying the names of royalty, famous artists, and mythological figures in vibrant colors overlooking the bay. I told the blind woman about how I tried to write about this garden but could not get past the beautiful names of the roses. What else is there to say beyond the names, she replied. Did you know, she added, that this arroyo canyon is named El Valle de Los Codornices, Valley of the Quails? I have never known a quail here, but perhaps they were in abundance at the turn of the century.

Roses and quail or not, she said, fresh creeks

crossed our deep canyons, even in war times.

Author Bio:

Karen An-hwei Lee’s recent poetry collections are The Beautiful Immunity (Tupelo Press 2024), Duress (Cascade Books 2022), and Phyla of Joy (Tupelo 2012). Her writing has appeared in Yale Review, Iowa Review, Michigan Quarterly, Kenyon Review, Poetry Northwest, Washington Square Review, Image: Art, Faith, Mystery, and anthologized in Best Spiritual Writing plus Pearson’s Literature: An Introduction to Fiction, Poetry, Drama, and Writing (14th Edition, ed. by X.J. Kennedy and Dana Gioia). Lee has received a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship, the Glenna Luschei Award from Prairie Schooner, and the Norma Farber First Book Award from the Poetry Society of America for In Medias Res (Sarabande 2004).