Something Whispered in the Shakuhachi

    No one knew the secret of my flutes，

    and I laugh now

    because some said

    I was enlightened.

    But the truth is

    I'm only a gardener

    who before the War

    was a dirt farmer and learned

    how to grow the bamboo

    in ditches next to the fields，

    how to leave things alone

    and let the silt build up

    until it was deep enough to stink

    bad as night soil， bad

    as the long， witch-grey

    hair of a ghost.

    No secret in that.

    My land was no good， rocky，

    and so dry I had to sneak

    water from the whites，

    hacksaw the locks off the chutes at night，

    and blame Mexicans， Filipinos，

    or else some wicked spirit

    of a migrant， murdered in his sleep

    by sheriffs and wanting revenge.

    Even though they never believed me，

    it didn't matter——no witnesses，

    and my land was never thick with rice，

    only the bamboo

    growing lush as old melodies

    and whispering like brush strokes

    against the fine scroll of wind.

    I found some string in the shed

    or else took a few stalks

    and stripped off their skins，

    wove the fibers， the floss，

    into cords I could bind

    around the feet， ankles， and throats

    of only the best bamboos.

    I used an ice pick for an awl，

    a fish knife to carve finger holes，

    and a scythe to shape the mouthpiece.

    I had my flutes.

    When the War came，

    I told myself I lost nothing.

    My land， which was barren，

    was not actually mine but leased

    （we could not own property）

    and the shacks didn't matter.

    What did were the power lines nearby

    and that sabotage was suspected.

    What mattered to me

    were the flutes I burned

    in a small fire

    by the bath house.

    All through Relocation，

    in the desert where they put us，

    at night when the stars talked

    and the sky came down

    and drummed against the mesas，

    I could hear my flutes

    wail like fists of wind

    whistling through the barracks.

    I came out of Camp，

    a blanket slung over my shoulder，

    found land next to this swamp，

    planted strawberries and beanplants，

    planted the dwarf pines and tended them，

    got rich enough to quit

    and leave things alone，

    let the ditches clog with silt again

    and the bamboo grow thick as history.

    So， when it's bad now，

    when I can't remember what's lost

    and all I have for the world to take means nothing，

    I go out back of the greenhouse at the far end of my land

    where the grasses go wild and the arroyos come up with cat's-claw and giant dahlias，

    where the children of my neighbors consult with the wise heads of sunflowers， huge against the sky，

    where the rivers of weather and the charred ghosts of old melodies converge to flood my land and sustain the one thicket of memory that calls for me to come and sit among the tall canes and shape full-throated songs out of wind， out of bamboo，

    out of a voice that only whispers.