Jiro Dreams of Sushi

The gods do not interest him,

nor their debris, nor their terrible storms:

he already knows how a body is made

to glow, precursor to neon lights — 

how hunger is hereditary.

Sons should not be haunted

except by the dead, and his father

is sober now, accepts tribute

in silence and Coca-Cola.

He is thankful for strong knees,

for momentum that lives

in the mouth and the hands.

Here is the fish with the filigree

scales, here is the pot of rice — here,

here: the grain of rice that makes

the bowl a bowl. Tuna’s blood

hardening in the water. Here is the night

through which he runs, realizing the floor

has turned to tissue paper, tearing

into morning. No, the gods

do not compel him: he cannot bear

the sight of the sun, an open sore — 

prefers the colors of its setting,

how they reflect the ocean’s currents, always

giving rise to something new or

something he has forgotten.

The sky as a table, mounds of rice

glazed with soy, gleaming

like a display of mackerel, like snow

general upon the island’s winter spine.

Days parade in their uniform;

hearts attack, close

markets, open new ones. He teaches his sons

to gut fish, does not despair his own hands’

speed: salt bandaging a cut, memory fraying

at the edges. Reaching, always — 

the top of the ladder, buried in light —