Wasuremono

We are hunting for onsen in the hills of Hakone, tracing the veins of thermal undercurrents like a kintsugi teacup. A stern matron turns us away from the only one open, so we settle for a shared bath. Amidst burning steam porcelain meets porcelain, white heat cleansing white skin. Or, am I being held in the natural hymns of Kamakura, Buddhist wood blocks clapping with woodpecker song? Perhaps we are circling the dappled deer dancing across the endless green of Nara, or singing ‘More Than a Woman’ – dressed as nurses – in a cigarette choked karaoke booth? In fact, we are sitting drenched from this morning’s deluge in Osaka’s planetarium, unable to understand the presentation. Thankfully, language is not wholly necessary when stellar-searching. Actually, no – we are stood in front of the Hiroshima Peace Memorial, or, Genbaku Dome, swaying in the spring heat like oleander. The battered skeleton of the former hall a reminder of when the sun’s surface heat was briefly brought to earth. A light so bright it carved permanent shadows of those caught in its appalling radiance onto concrete walls.

Arrested ruin
whose flame is yet to be snuffed –
erasure half-etched.