Mariko Kitakubo

 

                                                   the warmth
                                                   of my father drifted away
                                                   never to return
                                                   like smoke
                                                   from an incense stick


                                                   on both our wrists
                                                   the same birthmarks,
                                                   on his death bed
                                                   did my dad remember
                                                   his diserted daughter?


                                                   the door
                                                   is still closed–
                                                   I, a deserted child
                                                   remain
                                                   in the darkness


                                                   maybe
                                                   he will miss me
                                                   after my death–
                                                   in this world
                                                   I do love him


                                                                                                  


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