The Peace

I.

It was the monk
Most Venerable
shiny head, fat amber
beads like softened sunlight
hung from his neck, opulence
of habit, spirit,
who bowed at the airport gate
hands pressed
toward me
that began again
my eyes to see
honor strong of shook Japan.

II.

"We were
appalled in this rich country
of sunrise so obvious--
we have hills that block and cities' smog
which heavily dis-
colors and dulls--and this land
that rides for miles across
so luscious and waiting to be roamed
we
were
appalled to see where we
stayed in new york city near times
square the
poor ones
littering doorways and crowding benches
to sleep
swept by newsrags very
near the tall buildings and
neon lights gloating we
were appalled from our hotel window
in this very rich country
of the waving wheat and large sky.

III.

Fumi ate her egg
amid translating amid the shrinking
stack of toast, too
polite to eat as someone else
spoke the words only she could pass. First
Sati would talk, Fumi
translate, I would speak,
Fumi translate,
eggs turning to rubber I said
please eat you work the hardest
of any. She cut around her egg
yoke, prodded it
by fork onto the knife
cut by cut ate with her
knife turned chopstick,
finally raising the yoke
whole
onto the knife and with another light motion
into her mouth,
again ready to serve her company.

IV.

The third of their party
whom I cannot honor by remembrance
of his name--
clicked
pictures
as the sun rose
from the car window
so taken, so impressed, not
wanting to forget
remember my uncle
talking some years ago:
"The reason they make
all that fine stuff--tv's and circuitries,
is because them japs have small hands."
"I remember after we won coming
home and rolling tanks into
the ocean so we could make
better time; we rolled them hummers
right into the goddamn water."
I say nothing, no retort
I know my heart made a
loud sinking sound
that splashed the entire
roomful of us. Sometimes
it is how I think
of the ocean floor--strewn with
riggings of rusty battles.

V.

So finally I have met the enemy of an age
over fried eggs and toast.
I find myself enamored and shook.
The irony of eggs and the bomb.
Speaking to the amber beads,
reflecting head, beautiful
shocks of black hair, Fumi's
tiny wrists, I
ask
"How is it you do not but
hate us, hate me here for what
was done to your people on
that day?"
Sati venerable monk smiles and says
"No,
no we would never hate you
for that. We would never
hate you."
The one whose honor I cannot
pay by remembrance of
his name, he has been
working on a national commission
for peace against the Bomb some
38 years. His eyes
have seen of what I speak; his
effort older than my life.
He looks at me, smiles, and
shakes his head no. 38
years of loving his enemy.

VI.

My heart rises.
I have seen peace fill our table.
It is not like anything
ever before.
Or
it is perhaps like a clean silence
or some soft cry.

Virginia Schauble was a member of Casa Maria, a Catholic Worker community in Milwaukee, when this poem appeared. Her poetry has been published in the Wisconsin poets calendar and in Gathering Place, an anthology of Milwaukee poets.