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.
Prompt: Unknown