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THE ARMS OF WOMEN WALKING
after the manga book, Barefoot Gen, The Day After (by Keiji Nakazawa)
On the train to Tokyo I find a seat,
open the book a friend gave me,
images of Hiroshima -- Flesh hangs like torn shirts
from the arms of women walking.
The train squeals by office towers, businessmen,
chic boutiques. A tiered pagoda's
scalloped tiles glimmer with morning rain,
its cantilevered roofs bow gracefully as cedar branches.
A soldier, burning corpses, shits himself,
his teeth and hair fall like petals.
The train clatters, cluttered alleys appear,
disappear. Glass towers reflect a passing cloud.
A mother kneels over her son, sees his spirit
in a swarm of flies. An old man glares across the aisle.
He sees what I've been reading. Does he hear
the echo of his child bursting into flame?
I close the book, look out the window --
a woman on her bicycle, basket packed
with dried squid, lilies, two cabbage heads,
waits patiently for our train to pass.
Marriage
Over French toast and coffee she begins -
I don't mean to be critical...
I wait for the words as she splits and guts a cantaloupe.
We have devoured each other since that cool night
I looked over my shoulder on Spring Garden Road.
Sometimes, I think, we have nothing left
but to pick the ticks from each other's fur.
But there were moments -
her pushing the slippery life of our son into the world,
four years later, our daughter.
Or the morning in my brother's apartment, the smell of
his death
so strong I found relief emptying his closet.
She stood in the spiral staircase next to the overturned
footstool.
In silky light she reached for me
to hold her hand while she prayed for him.
Maybe thousands of moments over coffee have earned
her this right
to tell me I shouldn't pick at my penis in public.
I laugh, relieved not to confront a darker dereliction.
She is serious. I will improve I tell her -honest,
and the burden of angels shows in her eyes.
"Marriage" first appeared in Slant, A Journal of Poetry
from The University of Central Arkansas.
KYOTO GARDEN
Speckled carp break the mirror
of a dark pond. I snap so many photos
I don't notice my family
stepping up wooden stairs
to a bright orange shrine.
They tie wishes to bamboo branches,
their thoughts delicate as snowflakes.
What are my 18 year-old daughter's wishes?
When she smiles at me her cheeks swell.
I stare back in awe as one who gazes
at a cardinal perched in a lilac
like a drop of blood.
I wonder what my son wishes.
He is older. His eyes narrow
as though with each passing year
he recognizes more of me.
I have told my wife I want to slip through her eyes
to whatever is next.
A fat carp dives for deeper water.
The pond's surface
snaps one last photo of me.
Bill Garvey lives, works and grows old in Keene, New Hampshire. His children are grown and live in Canada and Japan where they attend college and have begun their own lives. His poetry has been published or is forthcoming in the following journals: Slant, 5AM, The Worcester Review, Diner, Concrete Wolf and others. He recently received his MFA in poetry from New England College. (August 2006)
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