Okinawan Diaspora: a haibun

There are teeth in the ocean attached to mouths like self-cleaning ovens. There are citizens disappearing on land. On land, there are sunglasses on monsters with guns. If I were my grandmother in 1910, with jet black hair, Western dress and handbag, a squeak and a thud would mean a door has been closed. If I were my grandmother, leaving my motherland, would someone on deck mistake my heart’s tempo for a paarankuu drum, like a dirge to my ancestors? Crossing the Pacific, tails slap back and bodies, like tornadoes, carve water like a magic trick. There are teeth in the stars, in the news. My grandmother’s passport is on her person when she closes her blue front door. Safe passage is also an illusion. If I were my grandmother’s mother, I’d want my daughter to escape. A country in moral poverty presents a ticket to Elsewhere. My daughter’s jet black hair and torpedo-shaped eyes are mesmerizing targets. If I were my grandmother’s mother, I’d give her my breakfast, pat her arm, drown the dishes in water, so I wouldn’t hear her handbag scrape the table, her shoes sailing toward the door.

Impenetrable

is the night with teeth without

you tomorrow and

​

​