My first marriage is killing itself, but it is not my fault. Slowly whiskey evaporates behind the couch. I commit plates, so if I bring a box of brown rice to the table, if I pray, if I overdose on painkillers, do you still lie on the cushion? You watch TV and the cat in turns; “I am aware of my cocoon period, honey.” I know you walk at 3:00am to find the recycling can.
Trainride to Another
It is not hard to lose a map, even though she stitches me one from the station to home
on my left kneecap. She eats a cookie on her father’s thigh in a train. The crumbs disappear
after three stations. Her father tucks in her hair like a bead curtain, like her red sari— it bandages her legs. She carries
dirt from a truck to the railroad during summer. She stirs a bottle of lemon dregs and plays an accordion one corner past the busiest station, so I
listen to it for two blocks while tasting coffee grounds. I have not lost my location yet— aging for sure, the window shows
my sunken cheeks. If I disappear into another dimension, I look through an aperture and tell her, “I am a patient.”
(cancer perhaps) Her strawberry ice-cream melts, drips on her shoes in a gentle gradient.
-- Naoko Fujimoto was born and raised in Nagoya, Japan. Her first chapbook, “Home, No Home”, won the annual Oro Fino Chapbook Competition by Educe Press. Another short collection, “Silver Seasons of Heartache,” was recently released by Glass Lyre Press. She is working on her graphic poetry collection, which will be published by Tupelo Press.