by Matthew A. Hamilton
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. |