Fujiya Roll
The man at the take-out place
around the corner from your apartment
always gives you two of these
for free, and extra ginger. The mole
on his face is round and plump
as a brown M&M.
Futomaki
It is New Year’s day, and the four of you
have slept in a heap on your red futon.
You are watching Bridge Jones’ Diary,
shoulder to shoulder, cross-legged
on the floor. The supermarket sushi
is soft and cold. You press two rolls
to your eyelids.
Ebi Nigiri
Your rolls keep unravelling
on their way to your mouth,
and he has mistaken the wasabi
for avocado. Later, kissing
in your living room,
you notice a red fish egg
stuck in his front teeth.
It is the first secret between you.
Nori
Your skin is as dry as the seaweed
you buy in Chinatown, six strips
for a dollar. It crackles. It is late
January: stormy, cold, and the days
are still short.
California Roll
You are squatting inside your bedframe,
the slats stacked like bones
by the headboard. It is three
in the morning, and your friend Jerry
will be by with his van at seven.
Your lips sting from ripping tape,
and it is too late for delivery.
Already, you miss the place
of things, the not-quite-dirty clothing
draped over the chair back, the clusters
of small coins and subway transfers on the dresser.
You open the last box and roll yourself inside.
• Poetry • Claire Caldwell • personal favourite • link •