Colleen Webster August 9 Moonlit waters almost make me forget today's anniversary.  But a woman's dress printed with white cranes mushrooms my memory and for the rest of the night I marvel at the ease of the Japanese moving among our milk-pale faces. When we destroyed Hiroshima perhaps forgiveness was a flicker on a far horizon, but how, three days later, after Nagasaki smoked and burned, was that light in the distance still alive?  How could the flame of connection still ignite their daily movements, change passing from palm to palm in the laundromats, carry-outs, bags shaken open for fruit from the vendors?  I cannot even stumble out of my grudges, my stubborn grip on revenge. Until I learn to close my eyes, see gray-ash fire rippling out from a blossom, breathe quick in the heat, tell myself to let go, unclench these fifty years.  In this light I do solitary penance, smell the scalded scars still smoldering.

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