my second washday

in Xi’an

Seven days since I left home—

suddenly I wonder,

who’s in first in the Central League?

Stare at foxtails swaying in Xi’an

just as they do

in paddies back home

This path sprinkled with

yellow sunflowers

stretches on to the Silk Road

Hundreds upon hundreds of figures

in the terracotta army—

their thoughts sleep standing

Looking at the residence of Yang Guei-fei,

wish I had a man

who’d dig a pond for me

Ripples on its surface

like babies’ sighs—

Yellow River in midsummer

After three days watching Mr. and

Mrs. Po,

at last I see

husband and wife are only lovers

As I walk alongside Mr. Po,

faint stirrings of jealousy

in Mrs. Po

Wind on the summit of Qianling—

I gaze down on an endless

mosaic of fields

In Xi’an—

city where all fruit is sour—

the morning breeze is born

Big Wild Goose Pagoda,

standing with the new-risen sun—

farewell, Xi’an

My eyes grow tired

in fields so vast

they laugh at all my words

Passport in tow, Machi Tawara—

whether she is here or not

North China plain goes on

Daubed with sunscreen,

my face shines the color of rice grains

in Luoyang

“Two for one yen!”

Little Chinese girls hawking souvenirs

cluster like thunderclouds

Though in Japan I never wanted them,

here I buy scroll paintings,

here I buy stone rubbings

In Luoyang, waiting for a bus

in the shadow of a tree—

I came here once before I was born

In Luoyang

the youth selling “banana apples”

has such long legs

The train plies the continent

westward, westward—

I close my eyes, wanting the sea

In a sleeping berth

that oozes earth-colored sweat

I hear a whistle scream

Drone of cicadas in a bamboo grove,

like a dizziness—

listening, I become bamboo

Handkerchief spread on my lap,

square and hot—

Hangzhou, city of body heat

Looking afar at Qiantang Bridge,

I watch a green train

snip off the wind

Before I know it

they’re calling me “Mat-chan”—

Wang and Little Chiang

Set off through Tokyo streets

wearing the T-shirt I wore

when I saw the Yangtse

Wake-up Call

It starts before

my wake-up call to you—

in Etiquette Lion toothpaste foam

Rattling me along

to where you wait in Shinjuku—

the Odakyu Line is my Silk Road

Sweet-sour cherries

on the rooftop terrace—

right now I feel

more loved than anyone

He loves the way

I look at my watch—

quiet fills my heart

Secretly I try on your jacket,

drinking in your smell,

and strike a pose like James Dean

“Life should be dramatic!” you declare—

for me a dramatic

supporting role

Morning—I sip milk,

listening to the song “Downtown Boy,”

missing you

Remembering your joke,

I giggle out loud

in the middle of a crowd

My heart racing at the color of the sea—

a color I had never known—

I scribble in my notebook

“Kujukuri Beach”

Beautiful—

in the park, close to twilight,

the gait of a pregnant woman