As if the trees that I didn’t know were there
become incandescent to call attention
to my inattention during my morning walk.
On the other end of the street, the renovation
of my colleague’s elegant, rickety house looks
complete with its anemic, Victorian feel.
Blessed are the meek, my mouth likes to form
inaudible words during our business meetings,
for they shall inherit the earth. But what about
the fierce? Before their fall,
the leaves are raised hands in flames here
as elsewhere—when I was a girl, Mother let me
touch scissors only during our origami lessons.
To turn a samurai hat into a goldfish
we flattened it sideways, cut two near-
triangles, folded them back as a pair of fins.
They would beat the air, thrusting the body
forward, deeper into foreign waters, casting
glinting scars. Blessed are the meticulous fingers
somewhere under that sky, cutting longing
into sharper shapes. Blessed are those
who remain lit despite their poverty,
keep burning to the last of their vibrance,
leaves eddying over the earth like clear flames.
Miho Nonaka is a bilingual poet from Tokyo. She is the author of The Museum of Small Bones (Ashland Poetry Press, 2020). Her poems and essays have appeared in various journals and anthologies, including Iowa Review, Kenyon Review, Missouri Review, Ploughshares, Southern Review, Tin House, American Odysseys: Writings by New Americans and Helen Burns Poetry Anthology: New Voices from the Academy of American Poets. She is an associate professor of English and creative writing at Wheaton College in Wheaton, Illinois.
