Japanese poet Naoko Fujimoto on lipstick and when we two parted.
TOKYO SUMMER, 1993
for y.h.
– on When We Two Parted
There is a bathtub in the parking lot.
I’m falling in love with an abstract
painting, you tell me. Your body
hisses in an August rain. We collect
dead cicadas in the bathtub
and sketch them for hours. This is a Tokyo
summer, 1993. A dandelion’s white seed softly
lands on the balcony. The cat
slashes open the window screen.
There is your head hanging by a curtain rod.
I don’t know how to live,
your mouth opens wide.
Dark and beaded rain
falls into the bathtub. I want to chop
off the cat’s legs and hollow
out its eyes. I’m craving
your warm body. Cicadas sing their silver song.
NF
MOTHER’S LIPS
after the tsunami in Japan
-on lipstick
You have no father,
my mother said & wiped
my neck with a long
towel; I smelled the lavender
soap: bubbles on her
cheeks: the outline of her
lipstick: dark
purple around her lips;
they were unlike mine; I wanted
hers; I hated the garden
scent; no
lavenders please, I said;
just muddy
bodies
on blue vinyl sheets
at the flower
shop; sand & pebbles filled
my mother’s mouth; I bit
my lip: tasted blood.
NF
Author Biography
Naoko Fujimoto was born in Nagoya, Japan. A recent poem of hers is forthcoming in Hotel Amerika. She is currently working on poems about the Tohoku Earthquake, tsunami, and the ensuing nuclear crisis. Her spirit is always with the people in Japan.
Thank you, Eli
N.F.
This is amazing. I’m rocked. Changed. Yes.
Especially “Japanese poet Naoko Fujimoto on lipstick and when we two parted.” and: ‘There is a bathtub in the parking lot.’