On my father
by Arthur Allen

like snow drifting down
from where my mother lives-
loneliness in Tokyo

Machi Tawara

I see as you see,
the sun
hidden in the blue mountains
    bluebells pooled about your legs
mountains so high they reach
to heaven    but you
need not go that far
I don’t lose
sleep over the mercy of God
into the garden where pear-
blossoms fall
       I will go to see
my mother with her joy
broken for keeps, a sob
breaking like a small bone in her throat
                trying to eat the lie
          that once you were gone
you were an abandonable thing

     found maculate
on your side, limbs like crushed cowslip flowers
tangled in the bicycle frame.

     Swept aside
by something that had passed,
gone in the wake
of something that was passed.