Dear Michiko,
Do songs sound different in prison?
I think there are more spaces between the words.
I think, when the song ends, the silence
does not stop singing. I think
there is nothing but song.
Matsuo’s back, his bruises almost healed,
a tooth missing. His biwa
comes out again with the stars, a nightly
matter. He sends his regards.
Do you get fed these putrid grey beans?
I hope you haven’t swallowed too
many of them. They put my stomach
in a permanent revolt, shouting no emperor
would ever feed his people so harshly.
I agree. Let’s you and I grow
skinny together. Let’s keep the peace.
Any second the lights will go off.
I look around me and see many
honest men who hide their beauty
as best they can.
I think that’s what the whites hate,
our beauty, the way we carry the land
and the life of plants inside us,
seedlings and fruit, the flowers
and the flush tree, fields freed of weeds.
Why can’t they see the door’s inside them?
If someone found an answer to that,
they’d find an answer to why
those who are hungry and cold
go off to battle to become hungrier
and colder, farther from home.
Nine o’clock. The lights all out.
*
Sometimes, Michiko,
I think of my greenhouse,
how I used to stand at night in its fleshy,
steaming dark and say, “These are the most
beautiful orchids and roses in the world.”
And their fragrance seeped inside me,
stayed even when I sold them.
What is it like now in Tokyo?
They say it has
sunk like a great ship.
Forgive me. Blessed
with a chance to talk to my wife,
more beautiful than any greenhouse rose,
all I can do is moan.
And yet, if I didn’t tell you,
I would be angry at you for not listening,
blaming you for what I haven’t spoken.
And it’s too late for that. . .
When you write back, please
tell me what country I’m in.
I feel so poor now.
These words are all I own.
David Mura (from After We Lost Our Way)
