Is It March Again?
I feel like it’s raining.
The way I guessed
was not by looking,
but because of the rain-like sound
against the window
On the radio, two people are having a conversation.
You take this rifle, Diane, and go shoot us a rabbit.
I ain’t got the gumption, Joe. I just can’t!
Listen up, Diane: there ain’t
a cracker left in this cabin. If you can’t
get us a rabbit, we’re done for
I can go to town. Get us some provisions.
But we’re three days outta town!
It’d be all right. I’ll go to the doctor, get
medicine for your wound.
You go right ahead then . . . get us
reported to the police while you’re at it!
In yesterday’s paper,
a man shot a dog, thinking it was a fox.
The dog was killed –
someone’s dog. It must have been terrible
for the dog and the owner.
Strange to say, but if it had been
a wild animal, a snake, a boar,
it would have hit me differently.
Diane came back:
Heavens, Joe. I just don’t know what to do!
Now you tell me what happened.
I shot a rabbit. Just like you said.
How ‘bout that now.
That poor rabbit had an owner. He got oh so
angry and chased me. He’s
a comin’ any moment!
S’all right, s’all right, just shoot the bastard.
Radio’s got lousy reception, so I
turn on the TV and it’s the same show.
Heavens, Joe. I just don’t know what to do!
Now didn’t you just shoot someone’s dog, thinkin’ it for a fox?
It wasn’t that at all! I shot a hunter, took the rabbit he killed. I could never kill
a poor little bunny.
S’all right, s’all right. Just tell yourself you saved all the rabbits from getting shot by him!
Something keeps pouring down outside my window
Sounds like rain If I go to the window,
it could easily turn into bullets or rabbits.
Which one is right?
Should I go with my eyes or my ears?
Is It May Again?
Time flies on windy days
wind rushing clock hands.
Six in the evening
in the parkan old man
practices bicycling.
He’s buffetedall wobble
like he’s learning how to wobble.
Tragic scene in this park last month –
cherry blossoms scattered
by wind less strong than today’s.
What happened?
Was the weather murderous
or did branches betray their blossoms?
Of the pathetic corpses that once covered the ground,
not one petal remains.
Gone, like nothing ever happened.
Ever since I read the poem called The Red Sparrow,
when I go walking
I end up looking for red sparrows.
Where will they swoop down from
on such a blustery day?
White and yellow sparrows taking off, landing.
Do red sparrows exist only in that poem?
Six in the evening.
Even past six,
the old man still wobbling
on a bike that must have been a hand-me-down
from his grandkids,
wobbling because it’s too big for him
mismatched hand-me-down socks
left foot right foot
from his grandkids.
It seems that
leaves and wind
have reached an accord
bicycle wheelssparrow feathers
the old man’s facial features
could scatter at any moment.
Cherry blossoms scatter with a puff.
I start to feel like he could be someone I know.
I look more closely.
Is this the very poet
who wrote The Red Sparrow?
I look even more closely
and his socks begin to resemble
red sparrows.
Artwork © Paul Carney
These two poems are part of our 20 for 2020 series, featuring twenty timely and exciting new works from the Japanese published here at Granta.com. Find out more about the project here.
