twenty-five years she’s been here
and still
a-me-ri-ka makes her mouth sour tight
sticks in her mind like spit-wet thread
caught in the eye of a needle.

twenty-five years of doing christmas
and still
she saves generation-old
bamboo mats for wrapping new year osushi/rice cakes
hums songs of japan
in the quiet dark of christmas mornings.
every year
for twenty-five years she plans new year

every year
for twenty-five years she plans new year
and still
one more dress to sew, one more bill to pay.
one more year passes.
She celebrates
sewing silk gowns for rich ladies.

twenty-five years
and still
she tells no stories of a war to a daughter
she saves marriage lace and
satin baby kimonos in a cedar chest for
a daughter who denies her conversation
watches her sew her life designs
into someone else’s wedding day

twenty-five years of city living
people calling her oriental or chinese
sometimes jap
and still
her eyes, like teardrops turned sideways,
say nothing,
with pride, she writes from right to left
of the greatness of a-me-ri-ka to her people.

twenty-five years
alone.
still
she cries in japanese.

Okasan/Mother by Sakae S. Roberson.

before sunrise excerpt

hard to understand
easy to love
hard to live with
easy to look at

i care for you
i’d give you my
everything
talk to me

*

november 2008.

silence of nights
of days
takes me down
to the bottom of
the ocean
i can’t see
i can’t feel

i don’t know what
to say after
you’re gone.

*

november 2008.

shoes and hair that
don’t match my imagination
words and smiles that
describe my world
hidden meanings and
face expressions that
make my heart
feel a little better

private little conversations that
cure my loneliness
sharing of air that
makes me breath a little
easier

relaxed and free
i sit i wait
for the cure to come
and rescue me

seventeen years later
it comes in a form that
i never thought i would
allow to free me

to help me smile
and laugh

*

november 2008.