i went to japan when i was three
but of course i don't remember that on my own
there are people who tell me the story of my life
and when i was three
(i guess that was when)
my dead father came back to live with my mom and me
in that little apartment with a bedroom, a kitchen,
and a bathroom, the only room with a door for privacy
i remember that when i was three
this woman screamed at me in the bathroom
when i asked her if she could clean me up
like my mother always does for me
and in her fury i felt around to understand
the slap of her hand into mine
through thin sheets of toilet paper
and her footsteps thinning
and the privacy door closing
and i, there, sitting, there, there
i guess that year my father died again
when he left without telling me that morning after
he had brought home end-of-the-day-must-sell-sashimi
and i cried a bit because there was too much
wasabi on my tongue and not enough
smells of sweet fish meat
lingering in the empty doorway
between the kitchen and the bedroom
i never revisited the vending machines to be found
on every other street corner, bright in the day
and brighter at night (i guess to keep the moonlight
from falling asleep alone), the ones that took
my father's coins, the ones he allowed to slip
and clink through the invisible paths inside, those
that allowed me to tip-toe on my three-year-old feet
to press that button with three-year-old joy:
grape soda, always that can of grape soda in japan,
laughing, i hear it thumping inside, down to me.
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