Naoko Fujimoto




Sister and I took a toy boat out to the beach;
in a cluster of puddles and vacant crow-shells.

I asked Father, “Where is the white sand?”
He said, “This is a fisherman’s beach.”

Dried octopi lined weathered nets. Some were grilled.
He opened a beer and sat with the fishermen’s wives.

Sister and I climbed the embankments. Stones
trundled in our sandals with beetles likeblack thumbs without nails.

“Mr. Kuro is on board!” I screamed.
The boat sailed straight.                     After two waves, it flipped.

A beetle’s legs balanced as if on a rising sea staircase.
“The first funeral,” Sister said.


Photo Credit: Staff