under the fluorescent hum of 7-Eleven at 3am
I buy an onigiri and wonder
if loneliness tastes the same
in every language

the clerk says irasshaimase
without looking up
and I think about all the words
we've learned to say
to no one in particular

*

my mother texts me in Japanese
I reply in English
we meet somewhere in the middle
where meaning blurs
like neon in rain

she asks if I'm eating well
I say yes
which is true
but not the whole truth

the whole truth is
I've been living on convenience store meals
and the memory of her miso soup
which I can't replicate
no matter how many times
I try

*

on the Yamanote line
a man falls asleep
on my shoulder

his breath is soft
his trust complete

for seven stops
we are intimate strangers
then he wakes at Shibuya
mutters sumimasen
and disappears
into the crowd

I carry the weight
of his dreaming head
for the rest of the day

*

my friend says
you must feel so free
living between worlds

I don't tell her
that some nights
I feel like I'm falling
through the gap

that freedom and exile
are separated only
by who's telling the story

that home is not a place
but a question
I'm still learning
how to ask

*

tonight I'll walk
through Shimokitazawa
past the used bookstores
and record shops
where other displaced people
search for themselves
in other people's words

maybe I'll find a collection
by Akhmatova or Celan
poets who knew
what it means
to lose your language
and still have so much
to say

or maybe I'll just buy
another onigiri
and call it dinner

either way
I'll be speaking
in my own accent
a hybrid thing
that belongs nowhere
and everywhere
at once

#poetry #identity #Tokyo #displacement