ISSUE: Winter 2013
A woman
downwind from Nagasaki now dying
is forced to decide
what form might hold her
when she’s made into flame
then scattered as ash.
A field, perhaps.
Of sakura. With bright white blossoms
blooming in the dark.
We got married in her park
under one thousand trees
then we took a plane
down to Avignon
that barracked city in the south
near the sea
where men on stilts with powdered faces
made plays into the night.
No guns pushed inward on the plush spot.
No war moved closer.
When I asked: What? You said: A child—
Then the night grew warmer
and the sky, lighter before dark.
