Jiro

0 0 0
                                    

You're not quite Jiro.

Your skin is paler

Than the paper plane he flies,

And your words aren't as soft,

Echoing against the metal shell,

The chest of the vessel

We rest in.


But I listen to you

Talk about planes

And engines and machinery

Like I can follow a damn thing,

Resting my head and elbows

On your knees,

Needing to feel a bit pretty

As if I could be anything close

To Nahoko.


But I'm not a wife.

I'm not that Japanese.

I'm a woman,

Blessed and cursed to live alone.

Rose, Prose, PoetryWhere stories live. Discover now