Blank walls,
white sheets
on plastic couches,
anonymous faces
naming me
by my first name,
as if they knew me,
as if they were friends.

Moments of silence.

Eyebrows raised,
as if a question
of life and death
could be framed
that way.

“Here are your choices …”

laid out like a menu
in a take out

I don’t speak Japanese.
The occasional photo.
The scrabbled script.
The impossible translation.

The unknown items
you choose
from the specialist’s menu
will label you for life …

… if you survive.

10 thoughts on “Sushi

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