Memories of Home

My memory of home sweeps

like the trade winds past clothes lines

–billowing frayed bedsheets,

jiggling pinned cotton underwear,

knee-high socks and plastic zip lock

bags turned inside out–

flowing through jalousie windows

pausing at rice cake and fruit offerings

to deceased Buddhist elders,

chasing fat flies from soft tofu,

green onions and thin beef slices

near the sink

where take-out spoons and cups dry.

My memory of home hears Ohta-san

replay “Song for Anna” on a music CD,

a small dog yipping at passing motorists,

brown hands belt-sanding a canoe,

sticky half-naked bodies talking

story–backs to the breeze–

cold beer in their hands.