staring
into mud puddles
after the storm
I have half a mind
to never marry

my name
above the hook
i know
right where
to hang my hat

Fire drill.
We scatter like maple leaves
in the wind,
Then, regather on the lawn
to talk about tanka.

doodling
paper lanterns
in the margins
i forget
the kanji for light

drinking hot tea
with honey
I inhale
a small piece
of heaven

calloused hand
guides the brush
what a shame
for a literary child
to be born of a farmer

my eyes
fly to the moon
and back—
they still can’t see
that old man up there

walking
late at night
a full moon
parts the clouds
to guide me home

soft
your hair between my fingers
as you sleep
for the first time
in arms that are not his

dry pages
between my curious fingers
I remember
a Japanese baker’s daughter
locked in her bedroom

a weed
born in the month
of rice-planting
the girl who grows
her hair long

as the candle
flickers
the room begins to
fade to
black

alone
once more
before the loom
she waits for her hero
to come home from his war

bright light
I pull my hood over
my eyes
I feel like a junkie
in the cold

my brother's bad
habit
I switch
chairs
on his porch