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I. Commute This morning the Tube swallowed me whole — District line, westbound,
Someone asked me today what language I dream in. I said: both, and neither, and they nodded like...
On the Yamanote Line, 11 p.m., I count the stations by their sound— Yūrakuchō, Shimbashi,...
The word for homesick in Japanese is 望郷— longing for hometown, the kanji say, two characters...
Someone asks me where I'm from and I say the Piccadilly Line between Earl's Court and Hammersmith,
Mornings I wake to English
spilling from the radio—
vowels loose and rolling,
familiar as breath.
But in sleep I dream
in a language I can't quite place,
words that dissolve on waking
like sugar on the tongue.
My mother's voice on the phone:
Moshi moshi, 母 calling
across nine hours and an ocean.
She asks if I'm eating well.
I tell her yes in two languages,
neither one entirely true.
---
The train platform at rush hour—
a thousand bodies, silent,
each of us alone
in the press of strangers.
I think of London fog,
how it made the city soft,
erased the edges.
Here, everything is sharp.
Neon cuts through rain.
Vending machines hum their lullabies.
I buy coffee in a can,
atsui, burning my palm.
A woman beside me scrolls through photos
of someone else's life.
We stand so close our sleeves brush.
We will never speak.
---
Some nights I write emails
I'll never send—
drafts to people I used to know,
versions of myself I left behind.
How are you? I type.
I'm fine, I delete.
The cursor blinks.
The room is quiet.
Outside, the city's pulse:
sirens, laughter, the clatter
of heels on pavement.
I close the laptop.
Pour water.
Watch the glass fill.
This, too, is a kind of home.
#poetry #identity #displacement #bilingual
