W. Todd Kaneko
A House Can Also Be a Cage
This house was built by the atom
bomb, by ashes sifting across
silent thresholds. These rooms are haven
to a leash of foxes, their backs
bowed by shadows of bodies they wore
before the war carved new mythologies
for us to bear―werewolves who don’t
remember walking on two legs, ancient
men who forgot how to lust for the moon.
This house was built on secrets.
My grandfather after the war, his skeleton
perched quiet on the front porch,
whole spines of history pressed against
the back fence. My grandmother knows
those perils of the forest, captivity
in unmentionable spaces. We don’t talk
about camp―that barrow where the wilderness
dipped dry tongues into unwary mouths,
where old wolves prowl, invisible in the dark
parts of our yard. We don’t talk about houses
made of sticks. Our bodies are cages
sculpted from worried cartilage. We pretend
we are all built out of sturdier materials.
Our hearts long for one another like chicken
wire for bare skin, a sinewy spasm circling all
those places we do not wish to share.
A House Can Be Made of Water Too
When we talk about Camp Minidoka, I will be talking
to fish―moving lips against an old aquarium,
listening for a swish of fin against glass,
a wordless gurgle so I can know something
survives in the algae. Consider living
with fish, a ten-year-old boy
sitting in my grandmother’s kitchen
wondering what we talk about when we talk
about water―the different forms
the neighborhood takes as it curls around
an old house, the different words we use
for family―ogre, witch, dinosaur―a language
no one wants to speak aloud. There are no fish
here, only people who remember living
like monsters―no water at Minidoka, only people
who once made weird shapes with their mouths
as they were drowned in muck.
One day, my children will know
they are descended from water snakes.
They will know how their ancestors were cheated
out of the ocean, how we still know the sound
of dust as it laps against our scaly bodies.
A House Can Be Made of Bone Too
When that tornado touches down
and every orchard is stripped of trees,
that’s the wolf breathing on your front door.
When your roof trembles under cruel
splashes of night, that’s the wolf’s belly
reminding you of skeletons
deep in your own nightgown, in piglets
with no clue about the smoky tang
of bacon. Outside, the sky erupts into
the ocean against your windows.
Inside, the television flickers as your street
goes dark―that’s the wolf swallowing
your neighborhood house by house
the way stars are extinguished by clouds
at night. When your shingles flutter in
circles like crows, when your gutters buckle
under all those fish, when your doorbell rings
to signal emergencies, you will be thankful
for houses made of brick. But remember―
when your grandmother answered her door
that last dark night, the walls of
her home didn’t save her.
W. Todd Kaneko lives and writes in Grand Rapids, Michigan. His work has appeared in Bellingham Review, Los Angeles Review, Southeast Review, NANO Fiction, Lantern Review, Blackbird and elsewhere. He has received fellowships from Kundiman and the Kenyon Review Writer’s Workshop. He teaches at Grand Valley State University. Visit him at www.toddkaneko.com
Return to November 2012 Edition
This house was built by the atom
bomb, by ashes sifting across
silent thresholds. These rooms are haven
to a leash of foxes, their backs
bowed by shadows of bodies they wore
before the war carved new mythologies
for us to bear―werewolves who don’t
remember walking on two legs, ancient
men who forgot how to lust for the moon.
This house was built on secrets.
My grandfather after the war, his skeleton
perched quiet on the front porch,
whole spines of history pressed against
the back fence. My grandmother knows
those perils of the forest, captivity
in unmentionable spaces. We don’t talk
about camp―that barrow where the wilderness
dipped dry tongues into unwary mouths,
where old wolves prowl, invisible in the dark
parts of our yard. We don’t talk about houses
made of sticks. Our bodies are cages
sculpted from worried cartilage. We pretend
we are all built out of sturdier materials.
Our hearts long for one another like chicken
wire for bare skin, a sinewy spasm circling all
those places we do not wish to share.
A House Can Be Made of Water Too
When we talk about Camp Minidoka, I will be talking
to fish―moving lips against an old aquarium,
listening for a swish of fin against glass,
a wordless gurgle so I can know something
survives in the algae. Consider living
with fish, a ten-year-old boy
sitting in my grandmother’s kitchen
wondering what we talk about when we talk
about water―the different forms
the neighborhood takes as it curls around
an old house, the different words we use
for family―ogre, witch, dinosaur―a language
no one wants to speak aloud. There are no fish
here, only people who remember living
like monsters―no water at Minidoka, only people
who once made weird shapes with their mouths
as they were drowned in muck.
One day, my children will know
they are descended from water snakes.
They will know how their ancestors were cheated
out of the ocean, how we still know the sound
of dust as it laps against our scaly bodies.
A House Can Be Made of Bone Too
When that tornado touches down
and every orchard is stripped of trees,
that’s the wolf breathing on your front door.
When your roof trembles under cruel
splashes of night, that’s the wolf’s belly
reminding you of skeletons
deep in your own nightgown, in piglets
with no clue about the smoky tang
of bacon. Outside, the sky erupts into
the ocean against your windows.
Inside, the television flickers as your street
goes dark―that’s the wolf swallowing
your neighborhood house by house
the way stars are extinguished by clouds
at night. When your shingles flutter in
circles like crows, when your gutters buckle
under all those fish, when your doorbell rings
to signal emergencies, you will be thankful
for houses made of brick. But remember―
when your grandmother answered her door
that last dark night, the walls of
her home didn’t save her.
W. Todd Kaneko lives and writes in Grand Rapids, Michigan. His work has appeared in Bellingham Review, Los Angeles Review, Southeast Review, NANO Fiction, Lantern Review, Blackbird and elsewhere. He has received fellowships from Kundiman and the Kenyon Review Writer’s Workshop. He teaches at Grand Valley State University. Visit him at www.toddkaneko.com
Return to November 2012 Edition