Someone dials my father’s apartment.
From the edge of the universe
with a very small
voice they ask, “Is Mr. Fujimoto alive?”
My mother says, “Of course.”
My grandmother screams, “What a kind of question is that?”
In an early spring cloudy sky,
there is a faint line behind
My mother makes egg-drop soup. My father
eats it and sleeps until noon. Sometimes,
he rings a bell at three o’clock in the morning
and says, “I want to hold your hand.”
My grandmother prays during the sleepless
I sneeze and whisper his name
through my clogged nasal.
From eight thousand miles away, he does not answer.
Instead, ants crawl on the carpet. I pick them up
and flush them down the toilet. They still
dream of walking to their final destination.
And I am only directionless
while it is hard to listen to the vapor trail.
The third summer is coming
after his stroke. I do not know why
souls stay living.
*Click* 30/30 Project by Tupelo Press