William L. Laurence, Journalist on the Plane that Bombed Nagasaki, Years Later in Bed with His Wife
Moving forward
or back? Which way
am I? I wake grasping
your nightgown.
I am still
there. In the haze of faces
burning. Arch
of spreading
flame, black-haired girl
in saddle shoes
and plaid skirt, knee-deep
in a yard of violets.
Her father, in clogs, pounding a path
home, balancing
buckets of carp
on a bamboo pole.
Daughter, father, splash
of carp, magenta rows,
white light's flashbulb zing
fades as I cling
to silk's edge, slats
of ribs
a bridge I take
to your belly's bulge.
My pollen inside you, nubs
of arms and legs, hands with fingers
petaling. Vase of roses on the night stand.
Your gold ring engraved
with my initials. The father, feet
from the gate, his daughter
kneeling with shears,
pruning flowerbeds.
Sealed in sheets,
I draw close
to your body,
place my ear against flesh,
listen to the rhythmic thumping
inside water.
Copyright Credit: Brian Komei Dempster, "William L. Laurence, Journalist on the Plane that Bombed Nagasaki, Years Later in Bed with His Wife" from Topaz. Copyright © 2013 by Brian Komei Dempster. Reprinted by permission of Four Way Books.
Source: Topaz (Four Way Books, 2013)