Reflections on Dogs, Tea and War Stories

TO ALL PERSONS
OF JAPANESE ANCESTRY

The War persists
like a feral stud,
digging under the kennel fence
to get the heated bitch.

Remember Nihongo, remember
the words: you are Yonsei,
fourth generation Nikkei.
Cha is tea, inu is dog--

nukume-gohan pasted in the pot
of the last generation.

Drizzle bloated oak leaves, matted wet
hairs on a mongrel's back.
They obscure the line where the native
clay ends, where the foreign
humus of the garden pit begins.
She digs in sandy peat, steeped
like tea leaves, nurtured in decay.

Behind the window, I watch you
planting the seed.
Your mouth molds syllables,
but I don't understand
the meaning of memory--
words on a page
from a book I didn't write.
I wasn't there.

Another bit of history
text doesn't recall.
In camp, your grandfather
translated for the authorities.
The others spat on him.
They called him inu.

Humble cha, womb of culture,
generations have cradled
the cup for which
I have no word.

Stanford T. Goto