Many young women, disfigured by the bomb, were brought here for surgeries financed by wealthy American philanthropists.

It is not easy to become a lie.

A scalpel furrows my face. Again
and again doctors hold up mirrors.
For years I am always healing. Finally,

I am something they can look at.

In August I watch lanterns on the river
where the burning leapt.

Water did not kill that fire.

It is light not dark I fear.

*

Forty years later
cameras flash to show the world
these lucky hibakusha.

Still,
I am exposed.

If I could decide
again, I would not become this.