The convenience store at 3 AM glows
like a ship in fog. I buy onigiri,
the clerk's irasshaimase soft
as an old song half-remembered.

Outside, the vending machines hum
their one-note psalm. I think
of my mother's voice on the phone—
How's London?—and I say fine
because what else can cross
that distance, that static?

Here, I am always arriving
or always leaving. The wet pavement
reflects red characters I can read
but cannot feel. My body
a book translated too many times,
something lost in each version.

Home is a word I've worn smooth
as a river stone, turning it over
in two languages, both of them
someone else's mouth.

---

Translation Exercise

The word natsukashii doesn't mean
nostalgic. Doesn't mean homesick.
My client wants an equivalent—
I write *a longing for a time
that may never have existed*—
too many words for one.

At the window, pigeons
negotiate the fire escape.
My laptop screen asks: Save changes?

In Japanese, you can say
I'm going and I'm coming back
in one breath: itte kimasu.
In English, we choose.

I think of my grandmother's hands
folding paper cranes, each crease
deliberate. How she never said
I love you, only
be careful and have you eaten?

Now I translate love letters
for strangers. Make their longing
portable. Trim the excess.
I know which words survive
the crossing, and which ones drown.

My coffee goes cold. The pigeons lift
as one body. I save the document,
unsure which language I'm thinking in,
or if it matters anymore.

#poetry #identity #language #belonging