When the tsnami pounded
the fishing town of Onagawa,
fifty bodies bloated
with rust and fish-smell
floated by my house.
A girl with sockets gaped
before black water swallowed her,
along with my roof,
twisted metal bridges,
and pieces of cars.

After the ocean receded,
I cut a path to where my house once stood.
Didn’t search for survivors,
but rummaged my own scattered life.
My refrigerator was jammed
against a tree. Opening the door
I found the girl with sockets inside.
A medic rushed over,   
boarded and collard her,
her body thin and wraith-like.
Paper lanterns floated above me
and she stared at me as if I were God.
I turned away. My legs stitched

a lonely seam down the beach.