Sons of August

Sons of August

Hunting cicada along the river
of a bright blue August morning,

I play with my sons in a field
of innocent delight.

In another August, sixty years ago,
beside another river:

From the shops along the market
the smell of cooking teased their hunger,

and the boats within the bay rocked,
tethered at the wharf.

Around them, the brutal wars of Asia
lay hidden in bamboo.

Then, when the sun fell, a boy lost hold
of a younger brother's hand;

instead, the fingers of the wind
tore searing at their clothes,

and black rain pummeled, as they ran,
their sudden nakedness.

They were dark eyes fearful,
moving past temples, through empty spaces,

dark hair matted, small and stunned,
knowing neither place nor way.

Stumbling, they met the swollen man
with skin that hung like seaweed

and the danse macabre of a woman on fire,
screaming for her child.

Today, the cicada, frenetic, careens
in the palm of my trembling hand,

while my children run among the shadows
of two old and monstrous sons:

Nagasaki,
Hiroshima.