suddenly turn, knowing it can’t be you:

summer festival in my hometown

Admonished to stop writing of romance—

what’s poetry, then?

Just another way to get a man?

After a muddled conversation, I wonder—

was I expecting too much

of ties with my mother?

Days of wanting to doubt one another—

my mother with sagging breasts,

and her daughter, me

My kid brother, who’s never been in love,

takes me to the movies—

I want to look pretty

My favorite singers, the Southern All Stars—

kid brother now old enough

to listen to them too

From the second floor I watch

my mother’s umbrella, a glowing red—

like a watercolor by Chihiro Iwasaki

Out in the garden

I pluck a morning tomato—

yes, this is home

Slip out of my T-shirt—

feeling Mother’s gaze

trace over me

Making sushi with Mother,

summer comes to an end—

I chew a hempseed, savoring the taste

Hug my kid brother,

lover of chocolate parfaits—

I’m off once more, leaving home again

Persimmons sent from home—

their warm glow brightens

my single room

Before the day is out

I really must do something—

gourmet mushrooms from Mother,

a bit of a nuisance

Winter brings a chill even to the heart—

as cold winds blow

my phone bill goes up

Warmly recommended by my mother—

this handcream called

“You-skin A”

Back home on an excursion ticket

good for a limited time—

layover in my hometown

At the bus stop I meet a boy

who speaks my native dialect

with perfect courtesy

In my hometown, children’s boots

running in the snow

like a sprinkling of bright gumdrops

Ordinary conversations, ordinary smiles—

the ordinariness of home

is what I like best

From mother-and-daughter

we turn into a pair of women—

an age when I think of marrying

Roasting ginkgo nuts—

my thoughts turn to the gentle universe

of home and family

Examining old New Year’s cards,

I sort the senders into piles—

this year draws to a close

New Year’s Eve—

back in my old home,

complain to Mother my toothbrush is gone

Groping in the mailbox

of my solitary room—

already my face has back its Tokyo feel

January—the soft curve of the daffodil

bending its head

sets me thinking of home

So, Good Luck

Soccer goalposts

face each other across the field

in a meditative rain

Cherries cherries cherries—

they blossom and disappear,

and the park goes on, unaffected

Pass by two lovers

shyly sharing an umbrella—

ordinary things take on new zest

Passing in the street,

we bow—

hey, that was my corner grocer

Hydrangea:

cast my affections

on the palest purple cluster

Frying onion,

I wait for your call—

until the pungency turns sweet

Bought a new body shampoo—

day turns to night

so that I can shower

Wanting to be loved with abandon,

I run—

June, sandals, hydrangea

Monday morning starts

so that I can see you

Friday at six

After an hour, still no you—

I buy a box of caramels