Letters from Poston Relocation Camp (1942-44)—Letter 2

LETTERS FROM POSTON RELOCATION CAMP (1942-44)— LETTER 2 / David Mura Dear Michiko, Do songs sound different in prison? I think there are more spaces between the words. I think, when the song ends, the silence does not stop singing. I think there is nothing but song. Matsuo's back, his bruises almost healed, a tooth missing. His biwa comes out again with the stars, a nightly matter. He sends his regards. Do you get fed these putrid grey beans? I hope you haven't swallowed too many of them. They put my stomach in a permanent revolt, shouting no emperor would ever feed his people so harshly. I agree. Let's you and I grow skinny together. Let's keep the peace. The lights will go off any second. I look around me and see many honest men who hide their beauty as best they can. Because I think that's what the whites hate, our beauty, the way we carry the land and the life of plants inside us, the seedlings and the fruit, the flowers and the flush tree, fields freed of weeds. Why can't they see the door's inside them? 38 · The Missouri Review If someone found an answer to that, they'd find an answer to why those who are hungry and cold go off to battle to become hungrier and colder, further from home. Nine o'clock. The lights are out. LETTER 3 Dear Michiko, Did you hear it last night? So many cries clinging to the wind? It's not just the grinding of tanks, rifles and mortars, not just the sound of eyelids closing forever, but something hungrier, colder. Tm frightened. There are so many dying. What do our complaints about blankets or late letters matter? Or even our dreams? But this was more than a dream. It came across the seas and the mountains, it smelled of ash, a gasless flame, and I woke this morning irritable, still tired, unable to rise. Later, bending to the tomatoes, in line to mess, trudging through the desert dust, the sun plowing its furrows David Mura THE MISSOURI REVIEW · 39 on my neck, I thought I heard them again. The cries. I wanted to answer: my lips were cracked, dry. Please, tell me Michiko. Am I going crazy? Did you hear them? LETTER 4 Dear Michiko, Sometimes I think of my greenhouse, how I used to stand at night in its fleshy, steaming dark and say, "These are the most beautiful orchids and roses in the world." And their fragrance seeped inside me, stayed even when I sold them. Now I feel so poor. These words are all I own. What is it like now in Tokyo? They say it has sunk like a great ship. Forgive me. Blessed with a chance to talk to my wife, more beautiful than any greenhouse rose, all I can do is moan. And yet, if I didn't tell you, I would be angry at you for not listening, blaming you for what I haven't spoken. And it's too late for that . . . When you write back, please tell me what country Tm in. 40 · The Missouri Review David Mura ...