Heart Mountain

At the Japanese American National Museum
a pile of small stones, most 
no bigger than my thumb, each 
with a single kanji, 
found buried at Heart Mountain. 
Each stone names something of the world—
horse, river, flower, snow, 
kimono, sword, blossom, death—
piled up like a miniature mountain 
in a bonsai landscape. 

No one knows why. 

I see her there walking along the barbed fence
and the empty river bed that runs 
through the camp. She bends or squats 
to pick up the stones, 
carefully choosing each one 
before placing it in her pocket. 
As she walks, she thinks of her son 
buried in a forgotten field of France, 
of her aging husband sick in the barracks 
with no medicine, of her home in Fresno 
inhabited by strangers, and of her daughter
whose dreams lie dead along the San Joaquin.

She dreams herself of a village outside Kyoto, 
of the peonies in her father’s garden, 
of plum blossoms on Mount Fuji. 
She fears she will go mad here 
where summer dust blows through the walls 
and in winter no fire can keep them warm. 
Each day she picks up new stones 
and carries them to the tar paper rooms 
where they are prisoners. 
At night when everyone is asleep, she 
names the world and all its parts 
earth, apple, jade, moon, 
sun, dog, table, heaven.