morning walk through Shibuya—
nobody sees me except
the 7-Eleven clerk
who nods

ohayō gozaimasu

I have learned to disappear
in two languages
which means I exist
in neither

• * *

my mother calls me British
my father calls me late for dinner
the immigration officer calls me
next

I call myself
a collection of permissions
a body that needs
translating

• * *

on the Yamanote line
I practice being a window—
transparent, reflective,
depending on the light

someone's breath fogs the glass
mine or theirs
I can't tell anymore

• * *

last night I dreamed in subtitles
woke up with my tongue
stuck between phonemes

the word for home
exists in twelve languages
I know how to pronounce
none of them

• * *

but today—

today I bought nikuman from a vending machine
steam rising like a small prayer
ate it standing in the rain
under the drugstore awning

the pork bun was hot
my hands were cold
for thirty seconds
I belonged to that contrast

• * *

belonging, I think,
is not a place
but a temperature

the brief shock
of coming in from weather
into warmth

or the opposite—
stepping out
into what you didn't know
you'd been missing

• * *

in English we say "lost in translation"
in Japanese 「翻訳で失われた」

either way
something stays behind
in the crossing

I am what stays behind
I am the crossing itself

• * *

tonight I'll walk home
past the konbini, the izakaya,
the couple arguing softly in Tagalog,
the vending machines glowing
like minor gods

I'll unlock my door
(two languages: key, lock)
and stand in my genkan
half in, half out

ohayō I'll whisper
to nobody

good morning
to the shoes I'm not wearing yet

#poetry #identity #Tokyo #belonging