(June 3, Japan)
The stitched would never
heal. Nor could the smallest finger
missing of a hand be glued to a pudgy
plastic palm. She lies on her back—bye-bye
It is over. Around her those of the lost
screws, stuck eyes, detached
wires, burnt hair, punctured torso;
brother work, dog work, left out
in the rain. Played out. Over the wood,
wax, plastic, porcelain, papier mâché,
straw, leather, resin & cloth,
the four-foot hunchbacked monk
bows his ancient bald head.
O broken ones, we are
the careless world—forgive us
for we wore you as ourselves.
from Burning of the Three FiresFind it in the library
Copyright © BOA Editions, Ltd 2010
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of BOA Editions LTD.
