Thursday, November 26, 2009


by Lyn Lifshin

It was as if we
were thrown into
a smelting furnace.
My friend had skin
hanging down like
the meltings of a
candle. Many ran
to the cool of any
water they could
find, hurled them
selves into sewers
or headed for the
River Ota that
soon was thick with
the dead and dying.
Some died on the
river bank, their
heads in the water
having used their
last surge of earthly
energy for a drink


Hiromu Morishiti found
her father later that
day lying in a grassy
field. He’d been on
a street car near
downtown, on his
way to work. She
cremated him in
her garden that
night, his eyes
like those grilled
fish. Others slept on
Hijiama Hill, looked
down on the place that
once was their city,
lay calling for
mothers, calling
for children, calling
for water then not
calling at all

*Lyn's website:

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