You sidle up to me and
bring your face close to me.
Your lips are cold in my ear like a glass bottle.
You start whispering.
I cannot understand what you’re saying.
Your voice is too fizzy.
I can only let your colourless breath in through my ear.
You put your arms around my shoulder,
with your hands stroking my neck.
You don’t hesitate to drop your words inside me.
They burst going down,
then turn into drizzle in my heart.
You suddenly tap your fingers on my throat
like playing the piano.
The rhythm tatters my breath
and I have to moan.
Your eyes shine into my hair
and my head throbs.
I eclipse your face and
you stick to me like a headphone.
Things stared at my brain
while I slept in my mother’s womb.
Her belly was transparent to them.
They waited for a chance to creep
into my blank memory.
A teacup projected its rose patterns
on my skin.
I repelled them.
It suddenly poured the hot tea
into my half-open ear.
I wouldn’t listen.
The cup slowly raised its handle,
pushing and scratching my brain.
It inscribed the word, ‘teacup’.
I struggled to erase the letters
but the cuts would never disappear.
To see one of Yuko's poems in Japanese, follow this link to The Swirl.