I don’t remember, I was in a blackout.
I don’t remember, the city was in a blackout.
I don’t like myself very much.
I don’t like your wife very much.
We climbed down forty-three flights of stairs.
We walked five miles in paper-thin sandals.
This way to the train station.
This way to the park where trees will hide us from planes.
True, the signs are confusing in that part of town.
There were X’s marked on the eyelids, that’s how I knew
the people were dead.
Because I prefer whiskey to gin.
Because the horse wasn’t close enough to the fire.
Because her ten fingers flamed blue toward heaven.
Because pomegranates, when ripe, split open easily.
Because he was an ordinary white guy.
Because they didn’t have any other medicine they used
Mercurochrome.
That’s right, they used vegetable oil.
That’s right, he took the last rice ball.
He turned the key.
He didn’t mean to.
The tomatoes didn’t help at all.
Because silk was rare.
Because the priest liked a drink.
Because the hospital was gone.
Like the clouds of ten storms gathering on the horizon.
I only thought I was in love.
The scar on her cheek, reddish-purple, continued to weep.
He told a different version of the story.
It never belonged to him anyway.
The sound of airplanes scares her now.
She has difficulty expressing her feelings.
You should be tender.
You should probably leave now.
You should look closer.
The first step is admitting defeat: the prayer goes like this.

—April Naoko Heck