Hiroshima

During the bomb

blackened skeletons of houses

smoldering shoulders of gray smoke

boiling air

not that a warning would have helped

or made a difference

bad karma strikes indiscriminately

it does not care what it wallops

as long as it inflicts as pain

            After

there is no difference between

holding a hand and letting go

speak for the dying

the day is being repaired for some

and ending for others

stretch me out on a stretcher of tongues

            *

When my wife died,  my hands were empty

and did not know what to do

I hammered

trying to repair what was broken

I would like to say it was my carelessness that made her die,

but I had no more control of our lives

than the random smacking of nail with a hammer

I would like to say, if I had spent more time that last minute

telling her what I want to say now

I would have said everything I needed to say

None of this matters when you have no control

It is not like repairing missing tiles on a roof

or hammering

until your arms have more pain than your heart,

one kiss is one more thing in a world of nothing

Things have a way of happening

when they are meant to happen:

no matter how much we try to understand

we never do

No matter what we try to repair, it takes awhile.

            *

the names of the dead

written on paper lanterns

float on the Ohita River

to endless waters of the sky

countless paper lanterns

offer stories

about to extinguish

know this:

write my name

on the skin of the paper,

set a match to it,

send it down the river,

recite my name

until your lips are numb,

carry my story

as a swaying paper lantern

            *

the earth can only handle so much grief

before it tears out clumps of hair, retching

blood no bandage can heal

nothing looks clean  

the earth is dark as a broken clay pot

someone has thrown away

no breeze can cool this off

Embracing the Unembraceable

1.

Saint Theresa was not always a saint.

She wandered among the poor, the helpless,

the lepers, and the untouchable, and she touched them.

She was willing to wash their feet,

as if they had the feet of her Savior.

If only she could save and serve them all.

She humbly prayed, probably knowing

it was impossible from first-hand experience.

Yet she clung to her rosary, as she slopped the rectory floor,

making circles in the same tireless space until it revealed

the rings of Dante’s Inferno, trying to wash away sin

and disease, scrubbing the wood into a hermit’s bald spot.

How utterly flawed she was compared to early Christians.

I must save all the untouchables, or I have saved none.

 I must save the ones who do not seek saving,

 for assuredly they need it most.

She cleansed, for repentance demanded it.

The floor glowed from within, a halo.

She reflected on her own reflection, and it was still flawed.

It was found lacking. The thing she wanted most

was the thing she could do least. Where was Peace?

Where was Divine Intervention? Why was there suffering?

Why couldn’t she change one thing?

Why was she on this earth? She was trying to embrace

the unembraceable. Why was suffering more prevalent than rice?

Why were mouths crying Mercy and receiving none?