On the Jubilee Line, 7 a.m. The woman across from me is sleeping with her cheek pressed to the cold...
December 8, 2025
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On the Jubilee Line, 7 a.m. The woman across from me is sleeping with her cheek pressed to the cold...
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...
The train announcement loops in three languages—
tsugi wa, next stop, prochaine station—
but none of them sound like home.
I press my palm against the window,
watch my reflection split
between here and the tunnel's dark.
My mother's voice echoes from the kitchen:
tabete, she says, eat,
but the word tastes different
in my mouth than hers.
At the convenience store,
the clerk's English stumbles
over my Japanese face.
I answer in both languages,
watch confusion bloom
behind his tired eyes.
Later, translating love poems,
I wonder if longing
sounds the same
in every tongue—
that small catch
in the throat,
the way silence
fills the space
between what we mean
and what we say.