If tomorrow is never going to come

I’ll tell you everything

before I go to sleep

What bird is that?

May morning, you wake up crowing

“Terr-ific!” “Terr-ific!”

May of my twenty-first year—

the word “motherhood”

a pure abstraction

Like 100% juice

from finest Valencia oranges,

unstrained

Sunday morning—

in sandals, we set off together

to shop for bread and beer

The number 12 is sweet—

I live to hear your voice

at midnight

Arriving at the station one minute early,

I spend one minute

thinking of you

Every morning, a sense of repose

after passing a storefront

lined with fragrant buns

Moon of the sixteenth night—

whatever thread that bound us,

snapped

Is there no new love?

Not really seeking,

I mutter to myself at dusk

“Woman in a Blue Hat,”

that painting I saw with you—

even now she droops her head

in the Sculpture-Forest Museum

After a week of not seeing you,

now, like radish cooked too long,

the flavor is too strong

At the beach stall,

sipping a glass of cheap saké,

the old woman’s words of wisdom

burn in my stomach

Watching together a love scene

In close-up on TV—

the actor’s movements so like you

Carrying French bread

after the wake-up call,

I mount the stairs two at a time

Writing left-handed,

your gestures are blue—

taking off your glasses,

warm yellowish-green

He loves me, he loves me not;

if only I had as many loves

as petals

Warm fall day—

down Waseda Avenue trudges

a band of musical sandwichmen,

hoping no one will look

Hashimoto High School

Kanagawa Prefectural Hashimoto

High School—

here the kids call

Machi-chan “teacher”

All making the most of this

classroom hour,

each in our own way—

ninety-two eyeballs, and me

Daigo, Katsuji, Ken’ichi, Shumei—

I read in each name

the pride of the christener

Girls in middy blouses

scurry through the streets

as if keeping someone waiting

Writing the characters for “youth”

somehow I’m struck

by all those horizontal lines

Now that I’ve learned their names

each pupil’s answer sheet

takes on a personality

Writing on the blackboard,

I pause to rest my hand—

in those seconds

think meltingly of you

Standing before the class—

my hairdo, my waistline too,

the focus of attention

Toss my attendance book

and navy blazer in the air—

on weekends I’ll be sweet and feminine

Commuter train shakes

with the cruelty of junior high girls

passing judgment on their teachers

As I grind the ink,

thoughts come rising to the surface—

grind all the harder,

as if to strike them down

Midsummer day in a classroom corner—

writing out characters

for “snow” and “fire”

My heart returns stubbornly

to a certain point—

ink isn’t black enough to blot out memory

This June, full of memories

I’d rather forget—

I set down the glass paperweight

Rinsing my brush at the sink,

the irregularity of the flow

fascinates me

Your teenage years—

slightly twisted by the song

“A Boy on the Backstreet”

Take my place at the podium