This town so foreign. Arranged as if river
                was few yards away. A bad dream
                pretending trees, leaves, to
                shadow harsh desert sun. The church
                leans now, bleached by years of wind
                and no water. Shipped in by whites

                with bad jokes of war’s promise, they farmed dirt
                in dirt’s dominion. What grew here was contempt
                and strange names cultivated
                for battle. They gave up home,
                redirected rage, refused
                to smolder, years before you came.

                Christ’s tower stands still now, the bell
                long since salvaged for scrap. Interred by wire,
                barbed, as if we wanted even religion
                left behind. In this way we are
                all historians ruining our past,
                betraying our apology. This is where it ends.
                Dust etching corners too hard to rot.
                Protected, like ourselves, for repeat.

                                                        for The Matsumoto Family