No one else here can read it to her.
The book is a sound of home. Our home.
The pages crinkle like tissue paper
between my fingers
paper so transparent,
shadows of all the poems appear together.
I can’t find “Heavenly Hurt”
but read a few words of another poem aloud
and wish I had practiced reading English more.
So, I say aloud the picture book of poetry I know by heart;
one Mom reads to this baby and used to read to me.
She cannot hear me.
Her doctor visits.
He cannot doctor her spirit.
A SLANT OF LIGHT
I call Nana.
She was a high school English teacher
before becoming a librarian
she’ll know “Heavenly Hurt.”
Emily Dickinson
#258
Nana knows it by heart
recites it to me
but after I hang up I cannot remember any of it
except
the line “where the meanings are,”
the number of the poem,
and the poet.
I look it up.
From what I understand
it will not make Mom feel better.
HEAVY HEART
My head is a blur,
racing at escape velocity,
the speed needed
to “break free”
from gravity.
Before bed, I open the shutters.
I need the expanse
of space
to empty my heart.
Earth and its atmosphere
cannot contain
my sadness
for America
for Grandpa Bob and Nana
for Mom
or
my fear
of losing this baby.
THIS IS MY MESSAGE TO SPACE
I want to be up and away
like Culbertson, the only American
not on Earth
on September eleventh.
I would cut the cord to Earth,
escape into your silence,
find a different view.
I don’t want to see or hear or feel
any more sadness.
LIGHTENING
Mom cannot connect with poem #258
or any poem
she cannot disconnect from the news.
We are surrounded by bad news;
this baby is surrounded by bad news.
I uncover Mom’s music player
fast-forward to something upbeat—
the Beatles and post-Beatles
section of the playlist.
I place the earphones on her belly
and push play.
“This baby needs some hope.”
Jiichan smiles at me
weakly.
A SHOCK OF YELLOW HAIR
In front of a temple
somewhere in Japan
Martha Stewart is grounded.
No flights to America.
Her head is lowered.
She looks out of place.
Mom, Nana, and I watch her on American TV.
Mom reads to us from her magazines.
Martha Stewart is all about home.
With sunken eyes, quivering chin,
Mom watches her
here.
Jiichan watches Mom.
So sad to see someone so far away from home
now
Obaachan says, “Poor thing.”
I will not go to school until Mom is stronger.
ARRANGEMENTS
Jiichan calls the school, information,
then a taxi.
He tells me we are going to church.
I don’t tell him
Friday is not church day.
We help Mom to the entry hall.
Obaachan follows, saying, “Not good.”
Jiichan helps Mom into outdoor slip-ons.
“Dangerous,” Obaachan tells Jiichan.
I can’t believe she’s complaining.
Jiichan takes Mom’s hand,
she leans on his shoulder.
It is the closest I have seen him to anyone.
He supports her
past Obaachan
through the door
past the ladder
through the garden.
Together they bow low
and step through the gate.
A plastic vomit bag
waves in her hand.
REACHING OUT
I follow behind and
turn to look at Obaachan
standing on the porch
under fifty-year-old bonsai.
I plow through the gate.
A neighbor looks at me
over her mail
but says nothing.
Is there nothing to say?
The taxi door opens automatically
like an arm stretching out to help Jiichan with Mom.
The driver asks him, “Is she okay?”
Jiichan tells him she has a plastic bag
just in case.
The driver motions to me to get in the front seat.
My stomach jumps to my throat.
I need a plastic bag of my own.
I’ve never ridden
in the front seat of a car.
My heart and stomach are already sick
enough.
CHURCH
I’ve never been in a church.
It is not what I expected.
It is not what I have seen in books
or on TV.
This looks like a classroom.
This is a classroom
at a university.
We step through the door
and we are surrounded
in a hug
like from Barney and Friends.
They know immediately what Mom needs;
her whole body melts.
Jiichan and I are stuck in the middle.
I have never even hugged Jiichan.
He does not hug.
He does not melt
only his chin melts
now
into his neck
with his back tilted
observing what is happening
to him.
Mom groans and then cries
cries coming up from so deep,
this baby must be crying with her.
Smashed like on a rush-hour train
among them
I let it be a hug
for me.
I feel grounded
and that feels good.
THE GESTURE
We attend their prayer meeting
returning after dark
outside the gate
in the beams of the taxi’s headlights
bouquets
wrapped in florist plastic
sparkle like a shattered stained-glass window.
There is no one to thank
I gather
there are no words to say
how much this means
but I will quietly thank everyone
who makes eye contact
or says “good morning” to me in the days after.
No one may say anything about the flowers.
No one may say anything about the towers.
No one may say anything about the dead.
There are no words to say
how much this means.
JARRED
Our dinner is sitting in front of Obaachan
steaming mad
she unwraps
and stands each bouquet
in the ceramic jar
that held the Tanabata bamboo
and places it in Great-Grandfather’s room.
Jiichan says, “Good, eh? Flowers can brighten a room,”
then turns the TV on.
FRIDAY MORNING LIVE
IN WASHINGTON, DC, FRIDAY EVENING IN JAPAN
Mom goes back to the TV
to share
the National Day of Prayer and Remembrance
for the Victims of the Terrorist Attacks
with Americans in real-time
with astronauts in the International Space Station
with believers of different religions
outside and inside
America’s National Cathedral,
a hall of arches
filled with
cathedral tunes
speeches
and five minutes of a battle hymn.
Across the world, across the universe
people stop for three minutes of silence.
Any comfort for Mom is comfort for this baby.
SEPTEMBER 14, 2001
A NEW DAY
We wake to
the news reports that Japan will assist America in war.
Obaachan switches off the TV,
saying, “Japan surrendered,
agreed to
no
more
war.
Ever.”
Japan can only defend itself. By law.
Mom retreats
into headphones and pillows
waiting for Papa.
Today I am stuck
between Obaachan’s anger
and Mom’s sadness.
SEPTEMBER 15, 2001
RESPECT FOR THE AGED DAY
Obaachan reminds me
SHOCK
I see Papa’s broken heart
on his face
when he arrives on Saturday
and sees
how sad
how pale
how weak
Mom is.
He calls a taxi to take her to the hospital.
They return hours later
I hear him tell Obaachan
the doctor gave her an IV.
RESPECT FOR PAPA
Obaachan says nothing when
Papa suggests watching the evening news.
Jiichan has control of the remote
again
to keep an eye on news here
and there,
he says.
BETTER REST
Papa sleeps through meals.
Obaachan leaves him alone.
Mom is sleeping more than watching TV.
I am sleeping better while Papa is here too
but I am awake during the day
on guard.
MORE WEIGHT
Heart-crushing
news
from the search of ground zero.
People from many nations have been lost.
A young man from Japan
lost his life in the field in Pennsylvania.
And
I’ve noticed
American news reporters mention Pearl Harbor a lot.
LET IT BE
I wish Obaachan would stop
telling me to go back to school.
CHRYSANTHEMUM WATER
After evening prayer
Jiichan swats the air
to put out the flame
of the altar candle.
His hand skims
the candlestick
and vase of chrysanthemums.
Both
tumble.
Droplets
bounce
scatter
gather
at his knees.
A flower head
floats;
a smoke stream
sinks.
Jiichan freezes, bowed.
I scramble to get a zōkin
to dab the floor before
Obaachan
snatches the flower
heads to the kitchen
throws it on potato eyes and skins
from dinner preparation.
Jiichan is startled back
the water and flowers gone
he doesn’t notice anything happened.
I think Jiichan is watching too much TV.
ALL THAT YOU CAN’T LEAVE BEHIND
Mom is stuck in one section of the playlist.
U2 songs over and over and over.
While Jiichan and Papa watch the ten o’clock news
I phone California, chat for a while before
asking Grandpa Bob,
“How do you forget the bad stuff?”
“You never forget the bad stuff”
he says
he’s still learning
to look beyond his worries
to see what needs to be done
to go on.
“It’s not easy.”
“Papa always tells me ganbatte.”
I tell him that Mom says it’s the same as “hang in there,”
but Papa says it means more:
“to endure with strength
with effort
with patience.”
“I’m sure your Japanese grandparents have had to do that.”
I think Jiichan has,
but I don’t say
because I cannot say
the same about Obaachan.
That would be saying too much.
Grandpa Bob and Nana have too much to worry about.
BACK IN TRAINING
I go back to school Monday
to do what I need to do
to keep going.
I missed a lot of schoolwork.
I missed curry for lunch.
I missed Sports Day practice.
I have to keep running
doing the best I can
to anticipate Masa’s moves.
He does not cooperate.
He says nothing, but I know
while I was gone
he didn’t have to pass the baton.
He was the last runner.
HAND TO HAND
A long school day followed by non-stop TV:
A Japanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs team
in North Korea
observes how Japan’s rice aid is distributed.
Famine victims express gratitude to the team.
People to people
there is some good news
between North Korea and Japan.
I can’t tell how Jiichan feels.
He is too quiet these days.
SEPTEMBER 18, 2001
GONE AGAIN
After three
fourteen-hour work days
with a four-hour bus and train commute
Papa was never really here.
He is worn down
tired and weak
and has to move back home.
Obaachan insisted
for the sake of this baby
we are all weakened
and she says Papa will bring us the flu.
Poor Papa,
he is home
sick.
SEPTEMBER 19, 2001
NOT THE SAME AMERICA
Death can come through the mail.
Someone
put a stamp on poison
and mailed it!
Jiichan is out in the garden
when I return
inspecting each piece of mail
local or foreign
before taking it inside.
Obaachan stands at the door.
Says he is foolish.
Nana says she won’t send anything for a while.
A DIFFERENT NIGHTMARE
Alone with the TV
sound off
the sky is falling
crumbling
through space
crumbling
slower than the speed of paper
crumbling
like
ashes
to the ground
white powder rain.
SCHOOL ANNOUNCEMENT
The dangerous stranger was caught
down by the river.
No details.
We weren’t even told what he did.
I had forgotten to worry about him.
Teacher tells us to keep our screamers on our bags.
My group decides to keep
walking to and from school together.
“Mama Patrol” continues.
MASA SERVING
I have to stand in line
today
for Masa to serve fish.
He doesn’t look at me
so no cold eye
not even the fish’s.
I watch him serving.
He seems serious
but then
he slaps my fish
onto
my tray
ugh!
it flops
onto
my indoor shoe
yikes!
and
onto the floor
yuck!
I have a stain on my indoor shoe
to remember
Masa.
There is no ! word for that feeling.
Teacher makes him share his fish.
I want to screeeeam,
NO!
FLIGHT 93
The American Congress
is considering giving
gold medals
to the crew and passengers.
Can a young Japanese man get that?
SEPTEMBER 20, 2001
ANOTHER TYPHOON
School closed
houses shuttered
remote controls gripped
the TV anchorman warns us not to go out.
Howling winds tell us the same thing.
In other news—
today,
September twenty-first,
is International Day of Peace.
Tomorrow is the twenty-first in America.
Peace is moving
around the world
through the time zones
as the date changes.
People in many countries have
events planned.
They are making an effort to find peace.
Jiichan and I light a candle at the altar
for Peace One Day.
A BRIGHT SPOT
Watching the American tribute concert
for heroes of September eleventh,
I am looking beyond the sad faces
to the starlit stage