after the tsunami on 3/11/2011
Again, blue dusk
fills my broken house. A sleek
sturgeon is still dead in my backyard.
“Let’s remove it and build a new house,” I say.
I always wanted long
hemp curtains. I am looking through them,
waiting for my sister. Her
cancer is spreading to her bones
and brains. She is not
yet in the drawer in the hospital. I cut off
the fins and tail. The spine is hard,
but the skin is like a gigantic rubber
doll. Once I got it from the summer
festival. When I squeezed it,
my fingers were dyed
I touched my sister’s cheeks. We run miles
and miles along the seashore
screaming an old nameless song.
Seagulls fly above me
when the spine drops on the sand.
The sturgeon’s abdomen is white,
but it slowly turns into muddy red.
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