Midwest Dusk by Lori Yamamoto

neon hums loud   silver lake’s pretend stars blink   camera clicks   painted smile cracks at the seam   mama whispers   from tokyo through tiny wires   “kyoto waits”   i cradle the word like tea   they call me mad   to drop a glittering name   city cages   velvet ropes tighten like vines   i pack hush up   a notebook, one cotton dream   midwest sky yawns   wide enough to swallow doubt   dusty roads call   with a shy curl of their finger   i answer soft   bare feet in second-hand shoes   diner bell rings   a counter older than rain smiles   coffee steams kind   washing yesterday’s mask away   here i relearn   how to sit without a pose   pages flutter   like white moths seeking porch light   steam from my cup   writes short stories on the glass   seasons stroll past   wearing cardigans of calm   strangers’ kind eyes   hold me gentler than mirrors   their “how are you”   feels like quilts just out the dryer   i answer slow   each word a seed in new soil   the girl i lost   peeks out from behind my sigh     evening leans close   big sky presses pink to cheek   i let her stay   there is room here for every self   old names drift off   balloons slipping small fingers   midwest dusk folds   me into its quiet lap