Photograph by Clive Collins

by Kim Malinowski

Hush

There is a not hush,
slight murmur of rain
and voices, a tea kettle.
The glaze on my cup
baffles the eye, bubbling like
some sunrise mistake.
I thread voices, my pencil scraping—
the barista, alone, willowy, sad.
The spattering of patrons,
whispering corner couple,
frantic student,
crossword enthusiast,
all with fragrant pots of tea.
Hiss of espresso, and melancholy,
the thread that binds us together.

***

Miss Betty

Ancient woman, sitting alone,
waits for her imaginary family to find her.
She captures me with pearls
and flowered hat, with trusting doe eyes.
I tell her she looks beautiful,
sadness melts as she kisses my cheek,
the nursing home’s air conditioning softly hums.

This woman’s need for love
matches her pumps and purse.
Claiming her cheeks were speckled
because she ate too much pepper,
giggling as I hand her change to buy a Coke—
though she and I both don’t know she is diabetic.

Later,
I wrestle over a cappuccino,
swirling foam like memories.
I can’t quite wipe off the dewy lipstick,
still waxy and wet.

When adrift and defeated,
her lips find me—

my cheek still damp.

***

Miyajima

I stood on the island of Miyajima,
looking over the ocean from a look-out-point,
I thought Hiroshima would be a crater.
Instead, it was alive, vibrant, with skyscrapers and
a skyline that rivaled New York’s.
I was twelve and I didn’t realize that I was crying until
tears splashed onto my travel brochure.
It was healing, like a forest taking back buildings,
slowly cracking stone and moss and ivy,
rain water and frost chipping away.
I ran up to the first Japanese girl I saw, Tatsumi.
I apologized for everything, the war, the bombs, death.
She nodded and smiled,
held out her index and middle finger in a V,
and said, “V for victory.”

About the image: Our poetry editor Clive Collins took this photo in Inokashira Park in Musashino City/Mitaka City, Tokyo.