Mitsouro
This samurai was careless,
lost his toes and thumbs last year to cold
and now, his boots packed out
with cotton waste,
tiny, yellow and alone
he walks on water again.
This is not Tokyo
This is High Arctic winter
we mumble to each other
as he dons a mask
to keep his face intact
not filter out pollution,
a spray can of pepper
in his frosted bib
to deter the hungry bears.
They take him in a helicopter
and leave him on a frozen sea
he has free will we say
and eastern inscrutability
and then
no news
Some years later a Japanese whaler finds
fragments of a bloodstained feather jacket
embedded in multi-year ice
there are pieces of human gut and organ
a sponsor’s logo from a bank
and a rusty unopened aerosol
in a pocket.
They say the old men of Japan
are leaving Scotch for Karaoke
the middleaged leave love for Mitsubishi
and the young all gone to Hare Kiri
lacking purpose and hope
A disembowelled youth is useless,
makes a mess
Mitsouro knew this,
but walked on water
and died nevertheless.
