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.