On the cusp of puberty
August 1945,
my world changed in a gasp.
From Fukuoka, somewhere
between Hiroshima and
Nagasaki, I saw
two chariot clouds that would
lift me from the cellar where
precious potatoes were
stored, as if my atoms were
shaken, rearranged, to find
myself riding the cap
of a mushroom shroud, drifting
over Fujiyama, then
east across the ocean.
I believed any place else
was better than where I lived:
coaxing warmth from ashes,
scouring streets for ragged sheets
of seaweed to wrap around
black-market rice and fish.
Once, I stole a sack of red
plums, and Mother smacked my face
before she sliced the fruit
and offered it to Father.
But in Nagasaki and
Hiroshima, a hand
imprinted on a cheek means
nothing to shadows set in
concrete. Why can’t life be
like Hinamatsuri, when
I would dress up all my dolls
for their hand-picked husbands?
I would dream of real daughters
to swathe in fine kimonos.
I surrendered to smiling
soldiers, who nicknamed me “Doll,”
and promised me chocolates
today and tomorrow.
So much for a hungry girl
with eyes for America,
land of silk and money.
—First appeared in Paterson Literary Review
JL Kato is a retired newspaper copy editor. His poetry collection, Shadows Set in Concrete, was selected as a Best Book of Indiana in 2011. A longtime ambassador of the literary arts, he was chosen as 2022 Literary Champion by the Indiana Authors Awards.