How I knew bodies,
their newness, their slow decay.
I knew trust and hope,
eyes entreating me—please, please,
repair what I am.

I knew luxuries
as did my smiling family—
silk’s music, art, wine,
strolls in our scented garden,
our koi, captive—were we, free?

Then the rumors, fears.
Our faces in the mirror—
we, Japanese: suspects.
The knock, and I was removed,
yanked from familiar faces.

Wind banged desert shacks.
Strangers, we were bathed in sand.
Erased. We vanished.
I watched my fellow men pace.
Doctors always have patients.

Our eyes, pools of grief.
Cooks, bakers—hands with no work.
One knife, on the counter.
Outside, leaning into the wind,
howling, feeling discarded.

One day, a chuckle.
What a muscle, the human heart.
Our dry, calloused hands
began to carve found wood scraps.
Bent fingers held rough beauty.

An old man, I’m back
to this city and river.
Such tears, nightmares, sighs,
and the wood butterflies. I
watch fragile wings swirl, rise, fly.