The boy I once was, grain and whorl

                                                         and knots of us all—I wield the axe, split this trunk, trace 
               our rings: kicked up dust of horses 

                                                                                                        trapped in flaming 

                                                    barns, smoking orchards 
                                                                                                      of charred oranges, bodies scorched 

into Hiroshima walls. Memories of green, the world 

                                                                                               before, Ojichan’s old home
clouded in citrus haze, whipping wind 


                                                        *


                                                 from the kendo sword over his head. My roots 

there, across the sea, planted
                                                              here in America. Mixed sapling, I grew 

                                                                               inside a pine house 

of music—from the clomp 
                                            of my father’s clogs, echoes 

                                                                                       on oak stairs, his pencil

             scoring notes, my mother plucking Haru no Umi
                                                                           as she knelt at the koto. Planted 


                                                        *


and replanted again, from one shore 

                                                                                 to the next, I carry honey scent
of eucalyptus and scritch from koala paws 

                                                                                                 against bark, eyes wide 

                 as they cling to trunks
                                                                                                 and my father blows his didgeridoo 

                                                               through the Australian outback, guided 

                                               by natives, Breath is a circle. With Aboriginal kids 
I run through jeep-dust, my skin 

				
                                                          *


                                              sun-bronzed, our laughter echoing off sand 

while we chase kangaroos. My rings grow, encircle more 
                                                                                                          and more, I go deeper

             into soil, end up 

                                                                                at our temple, open 
the red door, bow to the dead scrolled 

                                            across wood ihai plaques—Obachan, Hidemaro, Kibimaro, Kunimaro—

                                                          hold my son up, he touches 
their inked names, Brendan, this is 


                                                           *


                                                            who we are, where you came 

from. His touch, a star magnolia brushing 
                                                               my hand, I close 

                                                                                                               my eyes, finger sandalwood juzu 

                                              for enlightenment, smell sweet remnants 
of jasmine burned for Obon, smoke kisses blessing 

                                             calligraphy on walls, summon the thunderous clack 

of walnut clappers 
                                                             from Ojichan at the altar, sticks drumming 

				
                                                           *


the taiko, uncle Kuni beating evil spirits 

                                                                           from the heart of the drum—these rhythms 
               pounding me back—to my brother’s cello lashed 

                                                                           against lockers, kicks and fists 

                                  against his head and ribs, I lean over 
him, palm bending 

                                               in wind, rise 

                                                                up again, storm the halls—my fist 
ready to smash 


			                                    *


                                     something, someone—whose woods 

these are I think I know
                                            I travel into dark, old shadows loom 

                                                            over me, forest of white glares, I stand tall 

as a board, hands behind my back, bend 
                                                                                              when struck

           by a roundhouse kick, You weak ass Jap, spit fuck you 

                                                                                                         into a freckled boy’s face, I am 
the shakuhachi, wind of my song 


				                           *


knocked out of me, breath scattered, drifting 

                                                                                              leaves, I huddle
                  with soldiers in the wood belly 

                                                               of the Trojan horse, float 

with Huck and Jim on a raft down
                                                                              the Mississippi, smell

                                sap of my towering ancestors, tell Brendan

                                                                                                                                      we are rings  
          of a tree, his great-grandfather Ojichan strong as an oak, poised


                                                            *


on rickety barrack steps, whittling lumber scraps 

                                                           into carp figurines. The woods, a part of me, all 
of us, the trees 

                                        Ojichan and his family, deserts 

                                                                                                            apart, could no longer 
see: ancient, towering redwood forests, birches 

                                                in the park, a single maple flaming 

                                                                                from their church backyard. My son, rigid bamboo stalk 
screaming at broken routines, bending willow 
 
					
                                                                * 


                                                                  as I cup his hand, lead him 

into the doctor’s office, It’s going 
                                                                               to be ok, quiet bonsai 

                                                                                         while he stacks his blocks. Sequoias pluming flame 

                                                                                                      in Paradise, hawks glide
over us, dip steeply, Their home 

                                                                              is the trees, Brendan. I know he understands, my son 

who has spent 
                                                             his whole life falling.