Even though
I left Kyoto nine years ago, still I hear
the early boo-hoo-hoo of mourning doves,
the shrill whistle before the train doors closed,
the tofu seller's afternoon horn, the winter flute song
of the steamed yam man, the front door sliding open
and sliding shut. Tick, tick, tick of the kerosene heater
being lit and clok-clok clok-clok of blocks, receding,
a reminder to douse our fires before we slept.
Lynn Miller lives in Ballard. Her work has appeared in Seattle Review, North Atlantic Review and is forthcoming in Crab Creek Review. She is a librarian at West Seattle Library.
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