In a random obituary, I hear of your death. No more rain; the balcony is still wet. You have been dead for eight months. A deep river flows between the futons laid out side by side. You were always late. Red and gold fish hide under a rock. Always late, and always your sleeves carefully folded. A cat knows the sunny spot. Flash lilies stick their heads out of the barrier net. I haven’t forgiven you for showing up with a comic book on that day. Bright leaves don’t see me in the interior darkness. A downstairs neighbor talks to me for the first time. I try, but I cannot remember much else about you. The backdoor is ajar; two mosquitoes made it in.
Miho Kinnas writes and translates poetry. Her book of poems is Today Fish Only (Math Paper Press). Her most recent publications include Matchbook Vol. 4 (2017) (Small Fire Press), Good Juju Anthology (2018) (The Unspoken Words), and Asian Literary Journal 10th Anniversary Anthology (2018) (Asian Literary Journal). She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from City University of Hong Kong and gives poetry workshops focused on haiku. Born and raised in Japan, she now lives in Hilton Head Island, SC.
I’m tired of pretending to be someone who I can’t be and no one else is who they think they are
So they named you Mona Lisa,
as the song goes,
blather on about your smile.
Karma’s an elegantly disguised bitch these days, mon ami