hm

so, more from the fake titles series of poems.

again, i'm surprised by what's pushing me in the direction of writing, but am not going to complain as long as it's got my brain trying new things.



The Hirihitos at Home

Kenichi was the first to notice.

This is the way of children,
they are still more question than response.

His parents promised it was just a shadow,
as if the sun had stopped at the wrong station
before getting home, but he chased around
the apartment whispering “Grandfather’s here.”

Uncomfortable spots of darkness followed. First a figure
at the refrigerator, then footprints crossed the living room,
with a separate set near the front door like an extra pair of shoes.

They tried leaving their lights on for weeks at a time,
bought extras to flood the home with illumination
like their local market, its aisles fluorescent, immaculate,
but each time the shadow returned, growing more definite.

His parents felt their breath die the first time
they saw Kenichi talking to the shadow on the couch,
head inclined as if waiting for an answer.

Even worse were the answers themselves.

Hazy at first, the family thought they were kanji
inscribed in the air, words they couldn’t quite make out.

Perhaps they were, but soon they melted
into different types of images, carved from smoke
like a photograph on fire, seen from the corner of the eye.

Children running through orchards, a river, clouds breaking
before the impatient sun, vaguely reminding Kenichi’s parents
of a place they’d seen, or dreamt, or remembered.

Mostly the photos were of summer days.

The trees had lost their bloom. Small clouds of dust gathered
around their feet as the children stood, half-turned, eyes closed
as if waiting for the first strike from the wicked hand of the sun.

Other times the images were of the fall or winter, leaves falling
or gone. The ground was broken as if the sun had lingered too long.
The trees bowed their unburdened shoulders in a long, dreamless sleep
while the children looked around, their eyes like over-ripe oranges,
full of questions that would bear no answers.

There was no sign of spring.