Today we gather bodies washed in,
surging from all sides
on a misty weekend morning. We line them up in rows because they deserve proper burials
no matter how they’d
lived their lives or how eventually
they exited it.
As the uniforms go numbering each non-person by
placing tags on respective large toes,
cars on the bridge slow
down and stop as folks
spill out to watch the scene below. There!
the May tide goes out
and the churned brown mud crisscrosses
figures draped all in white.
Once we threw bodies
into the water from this same bridge.
Now we fish them out
while shouting lyrics from dead artists.
You came and watched then too, remember?
You refused to join
us by the water,
remaining on the bridge.
Instead of tallying the bodies
you kept on repeating their names out
loud as you were absolutely sure and convinced
what you did was right
until the uniform had to shout over crying gulls,
warning you against continuing
but you didn’t listen then.
Will you listen now?
We were not impressed by her until she pulled out her shotgun during our impromptu visit.
The dark little birds hurtling from the sky sent Hiroshi scrambling towards shelter. Once safely under the bamboo shed’s roofing and conscious of the hammering overhead, he looked back. Astonishingly, Hanagawa was walking calmly down the forest path towards him. Her wide-brimmed farmer’s hat offered paltry protection and seeing her continue stubbornly, despite being knocked-off stride repeatedly by the beaked projectiles, turned Hiroshi’s blind panic into disbelief.