I would not tell him I am hurt
but
he will hear it
in my voice.
NIGHTMARE
All night
a giant Masa chases me down
the hall with a broom.
Obaachan in her best apron
shuffles
down another hall
taking her time
waiting to ambush him
for an apology.
She has no idea he’s a giant Masa.
She cannot see what I see.
I shout out of the nightmare.
Mom wakes
calms me
tells me to try to sleep,
but I don’t want to go back to sleep.
And I don’t want to go to that school.
FOR SPORTS DAY
On the playground
or in the gym on rainy days
we begin training.
This class, along with half the school,
turns our gym hats
inside out
showing the white sides.
We are the white team.
The red team, the other half of the school,
wears the red side out.
Teacher tells one, two, three students to darken
their names on their gym shirts.
We need to look neat and uniform.
My last name is dark enough
written recently
on two ends of a cotton dish towel
one half pinned to the front
the other half to the back
of this gym uniform borrowed
from the school.
From a distance, I will blend in.
TRAINING
Midmorning,
we change into our gym suits.
We practice the fifth-grade dance routine
and sporting events
and the all-grade relay.
We participate in everything
no matter our skill or speed.
We will win events as a team.
I am a fast runner
which doesn’t matter
except that
every year I join the fastest runners
at the end of the relay
for an exciting finish.
After the relay trial run
Teacher says I will be a last runner
and MASA will hand me the baton.
AFTER PRACTICE
Masa grabs, crumples, and tosses
my math homework at me
in front of Teacher.
She ignores him.
My NASA pen is missing.
I cannot tell Teacher.
Personal items aren’t allowed
at school.
BEFORE BEDTIME
Curled in the circle of light
from the overhead lamp, we lie
futon to futon
pillow to pillow
face to face.
Mom asks about school.
Her cheeks,
drained of the pink
that flushes when she’s happy,
fade into the pillowcase.
Her eyes,
flecked with the yellow
that flashes when she’s angry,
drown in their blue.
My heart
in my throat says
lub dub lub dub lub dub
in English.
My heart wants to tell her
lub dub lub dub lub dub
I am broken
about my missing NASA pen
lub dub lub dub lub dub
I am sick
about the missing wish
lub dub lub dub lub dub
I am worried
about Masa.
I cannot let Mom hear my heart
for this baby
she cannot be worried or sad or mad.
I stand up and pull the lamp cord.
“The lunch menu looks good,” I say.
lub dub lub dub lub dub
That is the truth.
SCHOOL LUNCH SCHEDULE
Curry rice
later
this month.
Soon.
The serving lists show
I am not in Masa’s group to serve lunch.
That means
we don’t walk together
pushing the food cart to the classroom.
That means
we don’t serve together
putting food on plates.
That means
I will have to go through the line for him to serve me.
My name hasn’t been added to the list. Yet.
SPORTS DAY PRACTICE IN THE GYM
I am missing my old school
chatting, laughing, cooperating together as a team.
Masa does not cooperate.
Seeing him run toward me with the baton
is a nightmare
but then
he comes to a dead stop
tosses it
makes me chase the baton bouncing
end over end along the floor.
Teacher tells us, “ganbatte,”
“hang in there”
“endure.”
I do my best with all my strength to be patient.
Glad it’s Friday,
a whole weekend of escape.
I need a break from Masa troubles.
BAD WEATHER COMING
“Eh-ma! Eh-ma!”
I keep walking
away from the schoolyard.
“EM-MA!”
I turn, see
Mom and Jiichan in a taxi
coming from her appointment
smiling
happy to see me.
I give Mom the cold eye.
Her face turns baby-seal white.
She realizes what she has done.
She’s put an extra m in my name.
I look to see if Masa is around.
The ears of the school
my “walking to and from” group
and possibly Masa
hear her call me
something that sounds like God of Hell.
The eyes of the school
my “walking to and from” group
and possibly Masa
see me turn red.
I hide under my umbrella
like a crab under a stone
but walk straight
through puddles
alone.
A weekend of worry is ahead.
ANNIVERSARY OF WORLD’S TREATY OF PEACE WITH JAPAN
Saturday morning cartoons
then noon news:
fifty-six years ago,
Japan agreed to be friends with the world.
Today fifty years ago
forty-eight nations signed the San Francisco Peace Treaty.
Maybe I can make a treaty with Masa.
I look to the right.
Obaachan sits observing
every chopstick click.
To the left,
Mom ignores
the whole table and TV scene.
I’m stuck in the middle with Jiichan.
It will not be easy to make peace.
The earth quakes and rumbles
the house shivers
windows, doors, walls
books, dishes
rattle
like the seeds inside Papa’s lotus pod.
Eyes meet
chopstick clicking
stops
begins again.
The earth shakes them into attention
to one another
for a minute.
SEPTEMBER 9, 2001
GRANDPARENTS DAY IN AMERICA
Dressed, fed, brushed,
I call Grandpa Bob and Nana
before heading out the door
on Monday morning
our tenth,
Sunday afternoon
their ninth
they haven’t gotten their card yet.
ON THE WAY TO SCHOOL
No one
in my group
mentions the extra m
or my crab face last Friday.
No one teases me
but three members warn me not to walk alone
because of the dangerous stranger.
BOUNCING BATON
Rain
again today
relay practice continues
in the gym.
It is torture.
At least Masa says nothing about God of Hell.
No school tomorrow.
Big rain and winds
from two passing typhoons
are expected.
TYPHOON DAY
Before dawn,
we sit at the TV
the flashlight sits at Obaachan’s hand
wind and rain rage.
Later the TV shows
people with umbrellas
struggling on the streets of Tokyo
and
people in rain parkas
standing in line at Disney Sea.
It opened a week ago during typhoon season
and two typhoons are hitting today!
The TV tells us
they are tropical storms, not typhoons
but they sound like typhoons.
Great-Grandfather’s palm
grabs at the sky
and other garden trees
bang at the shutters
like they want to come inside.
I want outside!
But I am glad to miss Sports Day practice.
SEPTEMBER 11, 2001
SHUTTERED
I can barely breathe.
This house
dodges wind
left to right
right to left
left to right
like a giant Masa
punching it
pushing its walls
pulling its roof
rattling its shutters
shouting through its cracks.
Sirens blare
airplanes are grounded
trains are stalled
power is lost
(not in this neighborhood).
This giant punches and roars
for hours
before it moves on.
We are exhausted.
Jiichan and I help Mom to bed.
SEPTEMBER 11, 2001
AFTER THE STORM
I slide the shutter slowly, quietly,
so Obaachan will not remind me,
“Letting the night air in
is not healthy.”
Shutters slide open
gara gara
one after another
house to house.
Neighbors must like what Mom and I like—
the sparkly air after a typhoon.
Papa calls
to tell me the moon and stars have come out.
I have let in the sparkle
but don’t even try to see the sky.
I look at Mom,
sound asleep,
not enjoying the night air
one cricket here
one cricket there.
TVs blare
a news flash
the whole neighborhood gasps.
SEPTEMBER 11, 2001
NOT KNOWING
Mom sits straight up.
“What?” she says.
“I don’t know.”
I scoot across tatami
slide the door to the TV room
but
Jiichan, on the other side,
holds the door in place.
“What?” I say through a crack.
“Good night,” he says.
Good night?
I look past him
at the TV screen
at smoke in a clear blue sky.
A lot of smoke
in real time
somewhere.
I don’t know
what is happening
so when Mom asks, “What happened?”
I am telling the truth when I say,
“I don’t know.”
She turns over.
Shutters closed. Eyes closed. I listen.
The TV or the volume is turned off.
The phone rings.
I hear Jiichan say Papa’s name and
“Let them sleep.”
Jiichan rests the phone receiver
lights the candle and incense
strikes the prayer bowl
and chants to open the gate of heaven.
I don’t know what happened.
Mom sleeps; I don’t.
SEPTEMBER 11, 2001
STUCK IN A MOMENT
I remember Mom’s face
her face before knowing,
pale but rested.
There is always good sleep after a typhoon.
Clearing dishes, Obaachan suggests Mom call Grandpa Bob and Nana.
International call service is overloaded.
Mom is confused
horrified
crushed.
Mom wants to see it,
won’t believe it
until the TV is turned on.
Jiichan gently suggests no.
Mom insists.
Hours after the world has seen it for the first time
we see planes hitting
smoke fluming
paper drifting.
We watch the towers go down
over and over and over.
They keep showing it
over and over and over.
A dust cloud swallows New York City.
There is more—
a plane went down in Pennsylvania
and
the war department of the United States of America
in Washington, DC
is in flames.
Mom sinks into the floor
I cannot find my breath
Jiichan calls the school
I’m not going.
Breakfast was our last meal in peace.
SEPTEMBER 12, 2001
ASHES, ASHES
Papa cannot get to us.
The world is on alert.
He is at work.
Later I hear Jiichan say to Obaachan
behind closed doors,
“If America falls, we fall.”
Rooms are thick with incense,
food tastes like burnt flowers,
Mom will not eat much.
Obaachan tells Jiichan, “No more.”
He prays
for the dead
and the living
without incense.
REQUEST
Mom says she will not
speak to anyone
on the phone
except Papa,
Grandpa Bob, and Nana.
Friends call her.
I say,
“Sorry, she can’t come to the phone”
in Japanese
in English
they ask if she is okay. I say, Okay.
But she sits too close to the TV
like she is trying to get there from here.
She took control of the remote
switching
between cable and local stations.
There is no escape for us
from sounds surrounding us
from images attacking us.
Papa calls.
Mom speaks to him
says she needs to leave.
She knows the world is grounded.
She knows she’s grounded
because of this baby.
She knows she has to stay grounded for this baby.
She says she needs
to get out
to go to church
to light a candle.
There is no church
nearby.
MESSAGES TO AMERICA
Many nations quickly say “sorry” to America.
REV
ELATIONS
Five dead
floods
mudslides
in Japan
after two typhoons thrashed through.
Death and damage reports still unknown
in New York City
in Washington, DC
in Pennsylvania
after planes went through
and down.
People show photos
to the camera
asking us
if we have seen their
son or daughter
sister or brother
mother or father
wife or husband
aunt or uncle
cousin
girlfriend or boyfriend
fiancé
friend
Xerox copies
color photos
with names of the missing
hang on fences
poles
and walls of buildings
still standing.
People have hope.
MORNING NOON OR NIGHT?
Time does not matter anymore.
Grandpa Bob and Nana
call again to see how Mom is
how I am
how we are.
We talk
not about towers
and planes going down or through
but I can hear it in their voices:
towers went down
planes went down
and through.
A foreign attack on American land.
The world has changed for them.
I tell them, “Hang in there.”
But here
on the other side of the world
I’m having a hard time
doing that.
I do not feel safe anywhere.
Obaachan asks me
if I will go back to school tomorrow.
I AM NOT GOING TO SCHOOL TODAY
Jiichan calls without asking.
NO COMFORT
Mom will not light a candle
at the family altar or
at the table with me.
She and Papa spend an hour together on the phone.
“The phone bill,” Obaachan says. “Ten yen a minute.”
Mom’s heavy book of poetry,
the one Papa forgets to bring when he visits,
arrives
special delivery.
Obaachan sees it,
thinks it’s a Bible,
sighs in relief.
Mom sees it, sighs, says, “Heavenly hurt.”
Thinking that’s the name of a poem, I open the book.