somehow they delight me—

celery leaves!

You always bring camera and

tripod along—

today let’s keep it

just the two of us

Say good night to you and think,

now the phone doesn’t have to ring

anymore today

Days I missed the forecast,

whether it rains or shines

I don’t get mad

The gentleness of sunshine

filtering through purple cosmos

that know nothing of last fall

At that turn on the way to the station

alone, I veer

toward the mailbox

Make a date with you for tomorrow

and slip oh so easily

into the green of sleep

Imagining your pain

at making me wait

I keep on waiting

Along the Sumida River

blows an early winter wind—

grasses tremble nervously

As the boat pulls in loaded with fishermen

you snap the shutter;

I like that look in your eye

Three-thirty p.m. in a noodle shop—

listening to the whisper

of frying tempura

Just now—

thinking of your work, weren’t you?

Mumbling only “Eh? Mm.”

In a backstreet

my eyes meet the stare of a white cat—

this corner of old Tokyo, a crack in time

Red pepper hotness

of the words I failed to say,

bitter in my mouth

Children come to the candy store

to buy a 10-yen dream—

green bottles of lemon soda

Across the steam you stand

panting and gasping,

gulping down a bowlful of hot oden stew

You look great

in your pocket-covered jacket—

shopping in American Alley

Buying lottery tickets

we plan our escape—

spread out a world map balanced

on an “if”

“Photographer”—

somehow the word

quivers with your gentleness

Your blue sweater

passed in ceremony through

the station gate,

and disappeared

Looking at a snapshot

too new to be a memory,

I examine my expression

Flipping through the channels,

three times I’m told

“See you next week!”

Always American

Because it was a spring

full of things to forget,

I listen all day to the Southern All Stars

“Let’s go to Spain,” you say

as we run down a windy slope—

and I want to go

With your right hand,

where the Line of Fate runs deep,

you slather sauce on your pork cutlet

A girl who likes fortune-telling

keeps trying—

until a lucky card comes up

Sunday—

we’re two people in the roadside crowd,

eyes turned on marathon runners

Our coffee, always “American,”

hearts in love think alike—

or cancel each other out

In Hiroshima dialect

you’re making fun of our love—

or am I hoping that you are?

Between us the word “good-bye”—

an evening of short questions

and short answers

Memories of being loved,

somehow transparent—

always alone, forever alone

AFTERWORD

Machi Tawara, a shy, 26-year-old high school teacher living in Tokyo, took Japan by storm with the publication of her maiden work: a book of poetry called Sarada kinenbi, here translated as Salad Anniversary. In six months the book sailed through countless printings and has sold to date a mind-boggling 2,500,000 copies and more, making it one of the nation’s all-time bestsellers. Such a record is remarkable enough for any book, in any genre; for a book of modern poetry it is unprecedented.