Funeral in Kainan

I should have arrived sooner. Now he lies

On a hospital bed in a bare room.

Through a small window ekes some light.

His brothers’ children are there, faces calm

In the certainty of death. His skull bones

Seem to overcome his flesh ‘til my hand

Grasps his and his eyes wake to recognize

His eldest grandchild. I can only say,

“It is me.” Not even in Japanese.

Three days later he dies. I am awake

At 6 a.m. before I hear the one

Word of English: “dead.” I don’t know my place

In what follows: I go with my cousin

To get my grandfather from his death bed.

No hearse, no orderlies, just Bando-san

And I carrying him down the back steps

To a Datsun B-210. The body

Is too light. His toughness made me expect

Him to be heavier like the trout he

And I used to try to land near Elko,

Which weighed so little once we had them free

Of the water. We take him to his house,

Lay him in a bed. I sleep in the same

Room that night, my grandfather’s own cozy

Place only a few miles from his childhood home

In the hills of Kebara. Death was not

Any further than it was from me now.

In the morning the undertaker puts

Him in an unadorned box; flowers,

Folded paper, his shoes and some food set

Around him. His family, friends, and neighbors

Come to his house. The service takes place here.

I am his closest relative, bearer

Of his blood. I now bear his mortal remains

To a crematorium, light the fire,

And hear my youth ascend the heavens.