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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,
the moon is stuck between buildings again
refusing to be metaphor
just stuck
at the convenience store: a man
arranges energy drinks
by color
not brand
I think of you sorting laundry
in a language I don't speak
sukima — the space between things
no English word exists
which means I live there
---
translation is its own country
passport: a mouth that opens
in two directions
tonight I dream in subtitles
wake to find my hands
translating sleep
the body always
a rough draft
---
at 3 AM the trains stop running
the city holds its breath
as if waiting for someone
to finish a sentence
I count the languages
on my phone's keyboard:
three ways to say lonely
none of them quite right
my mother tongue
forked
lightning over Shibuya
writes a word I recognize
but cannot read
the thunder arrives
five seconds later
still translating
#poetry #identity #language #Tokyo #belonging
