Presence
BY BRIAN KOMEI DEMPSTER
Because it has to be. Because I was never
there—keep returning, obsessed. Because Ojichan
is a monument, calms me
when I am afraid—placid and immovable
on the front porch, standing firm
in his kesa as cigarette smoke
is blown in his face, and he gazes back hard
through the interrogation. Do you understand me? Because
I am starved to see, drowning
in that fogged night, lost between rain
dashes. Because his words are heard
as broken, We live here. Our church. Because my grandfather
is a stone wall the men try to shove
backwards, our name, Ishida, means rock field
our darkened temple
resonant as the cistern
spilling notes
from my father’s trombone. Because my dad hears
presence in silence, timbre
of air over stone. Listen deep. The poem
is there. Because webs glisten
and rain spills
into trouser cuffs, over glinting wingtips, always three
of them, shoulders braced
against the heavy
red door. Because the tremolo
in shadows, and I am swept back, their sudden force
slamming the door open. Because I want to unbuckle
their beige coats, expose
the stubbled one
who holds up a transistor radio. What is this?
Because our altar bristles
with static, the radio’s crackle means
guilt, Ojichan signaling the Jap
enemy. For baseball games. To play
our music. Because our world tilts
from faces masked, farmers vanish
in sudden raids, skies upturn as my son catches
voices through brain static. Come with us. Because Grace and I drive
past emptied grape fields
to reach
the sea, Brendan combs his hand through sandy shores
where my grandparents landed, picks up some of our words
like shells. Where? Because I can’t sift
through mist, there is
no shore, just unrelenting waves, the men moving
through rooms, turning up
drawers, scattering Grandmother’s poems. Ojichan can’t block
the three of them. What is this?
I am there
and not there. Because Obachan grips her haiku pen
behind her back
like a knife, holds still
by the temple bell, her sons and daughters huddled
behind her, my baby mother
in her arms. Get your coat, sir. Because the original wound
is the shade
of fallen grapes, the pen tip pierces
her palm
and words scratch
my throat, sharpen
inside. I tell
my students Sometimes
a swear word is best. Ojichan would never swear
like me. Because I rage profane, smash
and burn things, and my mother scolds white clerks
who pass her up in line, no end
to the smoldering. You didn’t see me? Because Ojichan’s kendo sword
silent in its scabbard
is not meekness, and stoic means
withheld heat, my grandparents’ eyes unflinching
in the shock of invasion
and clatter of juzu beads, their Issei faces
untranslatable by the three men
who see only fear
in quiet. Because I am half-white, and I can fucking
discern who we are. Don’t resist. Because
I churn
in riptides, calm with ambient
waves of incense, my father blowing
a conch, spreading his warm breath—a balm
over my son’s frozen
left arm. Because Obachan is taut
as a cello string, and I want my brother
to bow away
the tension. Don’t move. Because the dahlias bend
while the men push my grandfather
down stairs, petals scatter across the sidewalk
like red tears, and Grace cries by my side
as Brendan’s arm moves, freed
by my father’s shell-song. Can you feel it?
Because my mother’s coo
is a sea whisper in Obachan’s ear
as the three men
pull at beads Ojichan wears on his wrists, shove him
in to the black car. No more
ground. We waver on shorelines
that shift. Get in. Because his prayer book
contains us, he turns
his head, looks back, Grandmother unreachable
behind the parted
curtain. Because he chants Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō
inside his head, and the refrain
melds us
to this place and time. Because forgiveness seems
like surrender, and this night
burns in us. Because there is always winter rain, the violence
of footsteps. Because I reach
through layers
and dig up the knife, find no one alive
to kill.
