Okinawa is the shiny trail of a snail tail. It is sweat where you don't expect it. It is turquoise sea and emerald grass and sun that burns a gold patch on your brain. It's sand in your pockets and your rug and your drain and your baby's mouth.
Okinawa is the poison of plant seeds and viper fang and fish spine and boxy tentacle. It's blood drawn by coral. It is the abundance of noodles and goya and sugar and pineapple, banana, potato, and pig. It's the heavy jangle of change in your pocket and the fresh moist cold crack of a roadside Coke. It is the oily slick of a rainy street, the winterspringsummerfall mud, the wind in your hair and your skirt.
It is the shadowed jungle, warm and breathing and solid as a flesh body.
It is flames, starvation and honest battle and murder, death in caves and off cliffs. It is a desperate last stand. It is the hundreds of thousands.
It's jet noise and American boys.
Okinawa is the well-worn wrinkle of a face that has seen too much. It's a toothless smile and a bow.
It is the shell curve of a turtle and a tomb.
It is badly in need of architects. It's the sudden plunge of the sun into the sea and the audience of a thousand cloud creatures. It's way too far from everywhere.
It's a funnily-shaped rock in the ocean with stuff growing on it.