Monday, 6 August 2018

A poem by Antony Owen

The last thing you dreamt in Hiroshima

“I name this star for your sister”
                                                      Sueko Hada

When I was a child I stuck luminol stars to the artexed nebulae
And my brother and I would share a bed and this universe
I loved him even when I hated him and we dreamt warm.

The night before Hiroshima died in the dragons fiery eye
You named a star for your sister in the cold pink sky
And the last thing you dreamt was born of a lullaby.

You were a spoilt girl who slept in the valley of her parents,
Remember only the blood heat, the thrum of his pulse
Buzzing on your index finger that chaptered memory.

The night before Hiroshima was swallowed by a star
And your neck became hollowed leaking black tar
Did you wait for death like orphans for that streetcar?

Sueko, I name two stars in our shared sky for your sister,
The first one does not burn, and does not blister,
And neither will turn and jewel you in their glister.

Sueko, Hiroshima was a spoilt city that you built with water,
Sjogren’s tears are a flood that came after twenty-five years
That came pure like rain and sure like daughter.

Goodnight Sueko, I name this star for you
Goodnight Hiroshima, I came so far for you,
Goodnight Keiko, my teacher, my first
Both of you are the slake of my thirst.

Sjogren's (SHOW-grins) syndrome is a disorder of your immune system identified by its two most common symptoms — dry eyes and a dry mouth

Antony Owen writes about issues largely unrepresented in poetry and his latest collection with V. Press The Nagasaki Elder is a timely reminder of the affects of nuclear weapons. He and his wife live in Warwickshire with their masters - two cats.

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