I was conceived from the holy ashes of burning Tokyo, mother shuteyed in her sex, father, broken by his fire bombs as he and his soon dead flyboys, nervously laughing, swapped baseball yarns invisible in the storied clouds high above Basho’s trail to peace and forgiveness. He, lonely to the bone, was on leave months before, in the sleet and rain of Wichita Falls, Tejas, wrapped mother in his blood stained hero’s kakis and entered her. Ma, sweet 16; ten years later: the carnival fun house fat lady. Father, the world champion weight lifter. She cried out under his warrior’s strength, imagining him her 10 cent romance hero ravaging her, he the dimestore cowboy awed by her dark nipples and blue, blue eyes I dreamed that rainy afternoon of tornadoes and drought when I was three, awakened by a lightning storm in Merkel, miles and miles east of Abilene, halfway to Sweetwater. Ma shouting her love call: “Unnn’t uhhh”, he silent ever since he glimpsed the burning capitol, the beautiful flames of Japan.