Climbing Fuji

Daryl Muranaka

When I was concerned
about being Japanese,
I climbed Mt. Fuji
in the middle of the night
to make the summit by dawn.

All night, I climbed
that rocky slope,
the long crisscross
of crumbling ramps.
My flashlight died
before the first station.

Along the way, I passed
old men and women
emerging from shacks
where they had taken naps.
Their little cap lights—
fireflies, wild in the dark.

Not quite at the peak,
sweating in the icy dawn,
my lips turning blue,
and waiting for sun,
I warmed my hands
on a five dollar cup of coffee.

Then, above the clouds,
the sun beat down
on the surface of Mars.
The cold night turning
into the cold day.
The red volcanic dirt
shifting beneath my feet,
with all my pretensions
sliding downhill with it.