Nightlight

Somehow I knew about them before I arrived in Japan. But I was beginning to realise it was the small ones that I should be wary of. The big ugly black ones, that you could clearly see inching along the roadside, were much too heavy to scurry up surfaces. The charming little red ones however, would suddenly appear on the wall behind the customer you were with. I would jerk and point, though only my fellow foreigners seemed to cringe at the shocking sight.

godless month . . .
I dream of riding a horse
into my childhood home,
all the family waiting
and expectant

We foreign girls started sleeping with the light on. It seemed the only solution. I was not going to lie in that top bunk with red cockroaches running around my head. Japan was not going to beat me. I needed the money, and anyway, I wanted to hide from real life for a while.

between snowfalls . . .
I wasn't meant to
find a love like this,
my slight resistance
not lost beneath languages

A Hundred Gourds 2:3, June 2013

The Taste on My Tongue

I'd travelled by train to the well-known Harajuku purely for the piercing experience. Tongue piercing, that is. Or a nipple, if you were game and your tongue was already adorned. Sitting upstairs in the studio, I could hear the sounds rising from the busy streets below. Markets overflowed with people and wares. The city had a good vibe. It was a place for the young and trendy. And pierced.

doorstep slices

of white bread, with the Marmite

I brought from home—

morning sun strains

through curtains never opened

I was the next in line and watched with interest: a Japanese boy sitting in a raised chair, his tongue protruding with an X marking the spot. A large cork was positioned under his tongue and held firmly in place ready for the thick needle to puncture it. I held my breath as the piercing needle came down and the boy’s tongue curled around it, surprised at the assault. A blur of hands, then a shiny gold bar was poking out from the boy’s mouth as he paid and tried to say arigato.

stirring

my cappuccino

with a cinnamon stick—

imitation is something

they do well here

Five minutes later I was awkwardly announcing, “It didn’t hurt as much as having my nose done.” The friend I'd come with was lying on a high bed having Xs drawn on her left nipple. Her lengthy black hair looked scruffy against the white pillow. I seemed to be leaning over her in protection, and couldn’t help but watch as her areola changed from a smooth yielding circle into its tight brown peak. This was a welcome distraction from my own discomfort. That is, until I had to avert my eyes from the sharp needle penetrating it.

before work

a quick bite to eat

at the noodle bar—

from pictures, we both order

the same meal every time

My tongue didn’t hurt much, but it sure was a strange sensation. Imagine someone’s forearm stuffed in your mouth: the fist pushed hard against your palate and the elbow jutting down forcefully into the soft base of your mouth. Not much room left for your swollen tongue, so enlarged that your teeth have now firmly sunken into the sides. How was I going to eat?

first sip of grappa

sometimes love burns

last sip of grappa—

but he's still on my lips,

the Italian I met in Japan

Skylark: A Tanka Journal 1:1 summer 2013