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Day 6: Tupelo Press 30/30 Poetry Project ( National Poetry Month)


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 

a plane.

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

our naked 

souls stay living. 

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