In the Flesh of a Peach | Ghosts

In the Flesh of a Peach

After a poem by Hagiwara Sakutarô

To the flesh, gathered, gathered things, memories of my hometown, devotion to my mom, love for children, rivers, cities, skies, clouds, seas, language, houses, spoons, family albums, the tsunami, the power station meltdown, contamination zone no entry within 20 km, the evacuated towns, the wreckage of rumors on top of that, early summer, gathering, gathering it all, the freshness, crispness, sweetness, tenderness, the smell of wind and dirt, Fukushima’s long history, overflowing, overflowing things, the flesh, a hornet’s rage not bitten but torn open, torn open while grieving, torn open while tasting, torn open while praying, the peach, everything.

Ghosts

The ghosts of mosquitos

are wandering over withered fields

looking for our salty skin

,                                                                                 ,    swarming around my head

I cannot see their shape at all                       and we

,                          have no idea where to scratch

,

.                                                                            ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

a shovel left on the small of my back,

what should I do with it?

,                                                   the tracks left by

bulldozers ,

land  fill,

,                                             to dump a hole within a hole

,

My skin,                                     ,

even today,

scrapped,

gathered,

dug,

,                                                                                      into a hole,                 ,

filled in here ,

 as the ghosts of a billion mosquitos pass over me,

,

somewhere, I’m itchy     ,

ragged top soil

the only thing we can do today is dig, bury the soil

hole by hole

there’s no other choice

without fail, the sun rises and even within this landfill, it’s morning

in this hole lightning strikes

in the field footprints without a body

keep going

dead trees are standing   their bark stripped bare

,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,           .

because a division of invisible mosquitos

,              can’t shake the hair

,              that has grown on the electric pole

,              we live in total darkness

under

a light bulb where someone has stolen the filament

,

trembling  in the darkness until yesterday we could see a future

continuing to sprinkle salt

on sliced bacon, slightly burned

thinking of

salt and paper, snow in a field

an electric pole grows a mustache

,      too scared to come close

and the

ghosts have no legs

absurd, of course, how they make waves

in the swimming pool across town

even in the light of midday

,        .

the ghosts of the mountains,                                         ,

the ghosts of rain puddles

the ghosts of cows,

the ghosts of birds,

still today, here in Japan,

wandering among us                                       ,

the elephant was so hungry that she ate matches

she is trying to hide the smoke coming out of her trunk

walking through the shopping mall                  everyone knows

the lashings she carries

undrawn and abandoned, the well murmurs

a salamander then a lizard on its steep walls

from the worn edges of winter cloth                                                       ,

,                    from some far off season                                   ,

,                    millions of trucks

,                    carry our sweaty, salty skin

as in a Franz Kafka dream

endless numbers of mosquitoes transformed back into larvae in the landfill  ,

three trucks carry                                 ,

,                    cotton gloves missing fingers

 ,,,,,               they try to carry them

,             to a secret hole in the ground

buried                           ,

there                                                    ,                                                            ,

calcified beside our imagination and no longer breathing       ,

,                             buried

heads of cabbage left in the fields, rotting        ,

buried                          ,

the deep purple scud missile station         ,

buried   ,

the causes of all this

buried

in the sand at the beach

in a dazed twilight

I used up 18 colored pencils

trying to dye the world

the ghost of

a dragonfly becomes a queen bee in winter

death

becomes a meaningless well

,                                   an absolute night

as tall black weeds are blown

back and forth

in the full moon’s terror

the mind does not stop its careful

deliberations                        in the brilliant dawn              the ghosts of mosquitos

continue attacking the dirt of this withered fie

ld

what should I do with the ghosts of cranes?

with the ghosts of bulldozers?

with the ghosts of plastic

tarps?

the ghosts of persimmons that

have stopped getting ripe

the ghosts of the bicycle peddles

that have had their bodies stolen

and so

the only choice is to dig more holes

why?

it’s obvious

here in Japan

there’s no land left to dig

and so

the only thing to do is dig

why?

it’s obvious

but still

here in Japan

the only choice is to bury the soil

why?

it’s obvious

here in Japan

because there’s no space left to bury anything

and so

the only thing to do is to keep burying

why?

it’s obvious

what space

what hole

what for

for digging holes

there’s no space left to bury anything

the only thing left to do is to bury

why?

it’s obvious

dig here

why?

bury here

why?

because bare trees are standing

ghosts of mosquitos are brushing my earlobes

these ghosts will be looking to bite our salty skin

forever

the ground

shining

but ahhhhh

in this abandoned countryside

from this untouched well

desire springs back        thick and fast

Note on the translation of “Ghosts”: This poem begins with withered fields which is a reference to one of Basho’s last haiku, Ill on a journey/ my dreams still wandering/over withered fields. The poem references efforts to reduce the levels of radiation in areas affected by the nuclear meltdown of the Fukushima Daiichi reactor. One technique is to bury the contaminated soil by collecting topsoil in large plastic bags and burying it further underground.

“幽霊” from QQQ. Tokyo: Shichosha, 2018. “果肉の奥の桃に” from 詩の邂逅. Tokyo: Asahi Press, 2011.

Image by Antonio Carrau.