Last Anniversary

By Roy Dean Doughty
For Takashi Tanemori
Written 8/6/07

One of the those deep purple glows where the sky
Assumes a color which huddles low and lower,
As if an uncanny shuddering of
Basso profundos were weaving dense polyphonies
Into those lonely, after midnight hours
Known only to insomniacs, thieves or poets,
Hours filled solely with this cold tide of the sea
In which our words and bodies crystallize.
He hear round, hollow moans, not of remorse,
Nor even of grief, but moans of remembrance,
Remembrance of that day when a lone bomber
Shuddered aloft with black viscous rain in her bay,
The accumulated deaths of all of mankind’s wars,
An irradiated woe bound to destroy the world.
What was born that day, lives in this night,
And occupies that hole in the lattice of the crystal
Where impersonal memories are stored.
Here rests the oldest, the darkest grandmother,
A crone on a squat, rustic throne, weaving the threads
Of the boiled bodies of children into a black, silk shroud —
Beautiful, ah, so beautiful, a night that shines
And glows, shines and flows, and makes of all colors
One color, one flag that billows over the nations,
Victorious, uniting, and tonight, after waiting decades
To unfurl, free. How can this be?
Are the children living again in this deeper tone?
And is this, at last, the color of forgiveness?

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