Haiku
Spring
Captured by a glimpse
of a gossamer life,
I see butterflies.
Summer
Egg-yolk pastry with red tea,
Which one? I’d like both.
Autumn
Sauries become fat,
slightly fried and with Dashi.
Feet in the quilt. Full.
Crabs on the table.
Winter
Orange. Delightful. Yummy.
Oct cook’s magic. ね?
Back to the South
The seat-belt light turns off, people all stand up and are ready to run into the warm and wet air of this southern town.
Remaining seated beside the foggy window, I see little fragments of last August, dry and hot, in the dripping wets.
Like the days in my mom’s uterus, I am reluctant to move; it’s never a rush for me to come home,
but it is always a hurry
when I am setting off and about to leave.
Nine months are too short to say goodbye,
though the crisp winter is already far behind.
The touch of wet tiles feels like my forehead,
and I miss the chili oil that made me sweat.
Look, the sweaty faces and swollen lips are saying something: Wet and Warm is my homeland.
Francis
a ballad
This story is about a peasant girl
who died in her twenties.
Everyone had heard her name—
The poor little Francis.
The tiny town where she was born
was not prepared to mourn.
Did things like that always happen?
No women had been warned.
A tragedy it appeared to be,
the fault belonged to whom?
The Cultural Event, or the
violence inside the home?
Before the dawn of (the) Big Event,
landlords existed no longer.
The father of this little girl had
nowhere to vent his anger.
The year was 1968
when she was nine years old.
After a “normal” fight at home:
a still and silent world.
Why did you let him, my dear mother?
She touched the wounds and asked.
He got no choice, my poor darling,
because of the life we’ve lived.
Run— run— my darling, run—
away from this dirty land!
Forget your past experiences,
good life awaits ahead.
The year was 1975
when she was sixteen.
Came to the city all alone,
she found a job: to clean.
Not long after she took the job,
a man took her to (a) cove.
Humble and timid as she was,
she said yes to his love.
However an addict that man was,
he beat her when he was drunk.
Why did you do that, I thought you liked me?
She touched the wounds and asked.
I do like you, please forgive me,
I do not have a choice.
Drunk— beat— sorry— drunk—
with many apologies.
Run— run— should I run—
away from this dark abyss?
He said it was an act of love
a crafty lie of his?
The year was 1979
when she entered her twenties.
Black and blue when she was found
in a room of tragedies—
Her father touched the wounds and cried:
The fated fall of a landlord!
The girl had left to another place
where she was not my child.
Her mother touched the wounds and yelled:
No more silences!
The girl had left to another place
where she was not a Francis.