Breath
Inhale a gun, a fear, a color-by-number
painting kit with no numbers, a picked lock,
a door that flaps but can not fly, unlucky
to lose the key in a garden of thistles.
A voice stretches plastic wrap.
Exhale a ring, a warning, a zero, an enso
as water evaporates on the paper
beginning and beginning
again, ideas fading before
letters can birth words.
painting kit with no numbers, a picked lock,
a door that flaps but can not fly, unlucky
to lose the key in a garden of thistles.
A voice stretches plastic wrap.
Exhale a ring, a warning, a zero, an enso
as water evaporates on the paper
beginning and beginning
again, ideas fading before
letters can birth words.
I Live Without Heat
Fireworks over the river. Japan is obsessed with hanabi. Year round, my students light them on the tetrapod piled on the shore. I lean over balcony bars to see tails of fading fire. Only a few minutes—cold air forces me back inside, where it’s also cold without insulation. As my boyfriend and I argue about how to buy an electric heater, historic arguments costume up and reenact. Too many tangerines, no marijuana, I’m no longer fun, he’s sick of nameless streets and noisy trucks and gaijin, gaijin. I mention he has the gift of time to do whatever he wants. (That is what I want.) My boyfriend says it’s not costing me to support him—I’m not sacrificing for him. The word sacrifice explodes into red flags. At that moment—just after rif, on the cusp of ice—I know we’re about to break up.
Next day, a small protest march on Gofukucho Street. A nervous man with a Mt. Fuji goatee glances at me. He carries a photo of John Lennon and I begin to cry.
Fireworks over the river. Japan is obsessed with hanabi. Year round, my students light them on the tetrapod piled on the shore. I lean over balcony bars to see tails of fading fire. Only a few minutes—cold air forces me back inside, where it’s also cold without insulation. As my boyfriend and I argue about how to buy an electric heater, historic arguments costume up and reenact. Too many tangerines, no marijuana, I’m no longer fun, he’s sick of nameless streets and noisy trucks and gaijin, gaijin. I mention he has the gift of time to do whatever he wants. (That is what I want.) My boyfriend says it’s not costing me to support him—I’m not sacrificing for him. The word sacrifice explodes into red flags. At that moment—just after rif, on the cusp of ice—I know we’re about to break up.
Next day, a small protest march on Gofukucho Street. A nervous man with a Mt. Fuji goatee glances at me. He carries a photo of John Lennon and I begin to cry.
Tsuyu
Sara Backer lived in Japan for three years and published a novel, American Fuji. Her first book of poetry, Such Luck, follows two chapbooks: Scavenger Hunt, and Bicycle Lotus, which won the Turtle Island Poetry Award. Her honors include a prize in the 2019 Plough Poetry Competition, nine Pushcart nominations, and fellowships from the Norton Island and Djerassi resident artist programs. She holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts and reads for The Maine Review. Recent publications include Lake Effect, Slant, CutBank, Kenyon Review, and Poetry Northwest. She lives in New Hampshire with a partner and two cats: Zbigniew and Wislawa.
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