with rainwater and fragments
of dead leaves, hid, and could
only laugh when he came out
for a drink, sputtered and swore
at a world that wouldn’t understand
half-Japanese, half-English.
II. SKYKOMISH, 1913. A PHOTOGRAPH
With eyebrows like black smears
of stage paint my father, at 25,
takes a stance on our front porch.
No one would dare brush past
his dark face, his pockets
conceal strong small hands.
No one would dare to tip
his bowler hat, ridicule
a checkered tie, or snap
those elastic bands anchoring
the loose sleeves of his shirt.
Links of a watch chain dangle
in an arc from a belt loop
to the watch pocket in his vest.
He is a match for the chair beside him:
its wood, carved like the ruffled
wing feathers of a pheasant.
The Morning My Father Died, April 7, 1963
The youngest son, I left the family inside and stood
alone in the unplanted garden by a cherry tree
we had grown ourselves, next to a burn barrel
smoldering what we couldn’t give away or move
to Seattle. Looking over the rusty edge I could see
colors of volcano. Feathers of ash floated
up to a sky that was changing. I stared at the sound
of meadowlarks below the water tank
on the basalt cliff where the sun would come.
I couldn’t stop smelling sagebrush, the creosote
bottoms of posts; the dew that was like a thunderstorm
had passed an hour before. Thoughts were trees
under a lake; that moment was sunflower, killdeer
and cheatgrass. Volunteer wheat grew strong
on the far side of our place along the old highway.
Undeberg’s rooster gave the day its sharper edge,
the top of the sun. Turning to go back inside,
twenty years of Big Bend Country
took off like sparrows from a startled fence.
Watching Bon Odori from a Vantage Pointwith My Three Children
It was from a slope you earned by clinging.
The sidewalk was a crowd watching a street dance
of peasants hoeing rows of white radish
below strings of rice paper lanterns.
The drumbeat grew constant as surf
after days of ocean; it became a heartbeat.
The footwork of the drummer, the way each swing
had meaning and was sure
reminded me of my father just before retiring.
Drunk on payday night, he would sing on our front porch
a Japanese song that meant nothing to me
surrounded by a small town, sagebrush
and hills that stayed out of the way of a creek.
Clapping hands between each pause
of thumping foot, father wove 130 pounds of rhythm
with biceps I always admired. That’s what swinging
a pick or sledge hammer could do. Thirteen years old.
I would come up behind the ritual of his dance,
wrap suntanned arms around his chest, capturing
darker arms, and lift in a half-circle
to carry him back inside, out of the light
that took the shape of our front door
fallen down. Once inside he would want to do some judo,
telling me the story I had heard
longer than anyone in the family.
Not the oldest son, at 16 he had left their farm
in Nagano, gone to Tokyo, a descendent of samurai,
and had been thrown out of a club
that taught lessons in self-defense.
Right into the street, he would brag, just like this
as I held his still-strong grip and pulled him
up off the floor where I had tackled him,
not knowing judo. When you fall, he said,
before you land, hit the floor harder first
with your hand and arm; it won’t hurt.
Because It Is Close and My Mother Is 72
From our booth my mother watches a Chinese busboy
who looks older than she is, and can’t use good English.
He talks to those who don’t understand
with smiles and nods. Wearing a circle
of white cardboard for a hat with no top,
he displays one gold and three
missing teeth. His back bends over a tray of cups
like the top branch in a tree full of starlings.
