Mother called it scent dragonfly;
we never learned its real name.
It was so thin, so discreet that
we considered its appearance
more a visit than an intrusion, poetry
than prose. It wouldn’t stay long—
their “resting place” I made with
sunset-hued origami held little to
no charm. In those days, Mother
was home, and her presence permeated
everything. She’d promise the dragonfly
would return, bring its friend perhaps,
stay longer next time. I was kneeling
to water flowers when I noticed
a floating pair just above my head:
each body a vivid dash in the air.
Who knows what a miracle is?
A scent, interested in attracting no one,
still returns at the heat of noon,
like a blue cord held by flickering wings,
a narrow opening into another sky.
Miho Nonaka is a bilingual poet from Tokyo. She is the author of The Museum of Small Bones (Ashland Poetry Press, 2020). Her poems and essays have appeared in various journals and anthologies, including Iowa Review, Kenyon Review, Missouri Review, Ploughshares, Southern Review, Tin House, American Odysseys: Writings by New Americans and Helen Burns Poetry Anthology: New Voices from the Academy of American Poets. She is an associate professor of English and creative writing at Wheaton College in Wheaton, Illinois.
