Political Poem

HIROSHIMA NO PIKA
Story and illustrations by Toshi Maruki


I was eight years old.
Mama and I had returned
Home from the library,
The only place in the valley
That gave solace from the summer heat.
We had a heavy stack
Of picture books,
Twenty or more:
Enough to occupy
My quiet vacation moments.
Mama always chose
The most beautiful pictures
And interesting stories.
When we would curl up together,
Sometimes she would read,
Or maybe I would,
But there was magic
No matter whose voice.
I found hidden
In the middle of the pile
A slim book
With curious words
On the vivid crimson cover.
I can still remember
The peculiar title:
Hiroshima No Pika:
The Flash of Hiroshima.
Toshi Maruki, painting
With stunning shades,
Told the story of a little girl
Just my age, named Mii.
Her world began as luscious green,
But with a flare of radiance,
Became vivid reds,
Gloomy grays,
Scorched, naked flesh,
Noises unbearable and scary.
I couldn’t understand how light
Might be painful
Like Mii said it was.
My mother read to me,
And had to explain
The details that were left out.
Once I realized how many
Children became lanterns
Floating down Motoyasu River
Towards the Inland Sea,
Once I understood that light
Can sear off skin,
Make limbs disappear,
Teeth fall out,
Make shadows tangible shapes
On whatever walls remained,
I hid
The book under the couch,
Facedown,
For fear of stumbling on it,
Knocking its bright covers open
To some scarlet page
Overflowing with soot-
Covered children,
Cowering,
Burning too fast to cry.