Seven Haiku from my Grandmother

in the Kawabe House 


by Sharon Hashimoto


          -- for Sayoko Toda


Knock, knock on room door—

peeking through a keyhole, I

see another eye.



Elder person’s room—

everyone fascinated

with the poinsettia.



Face after face stare

back.  I shrug.  My weak hearing

makes talking look odd.



Lip licking around

me—people gossip, tasting

many distressed words.



Autumn yellow leaves—

thin sun—only one sudden

night of wind.  All gone.



Early, I wake—cold.

The comforter escaped, not

staying on my back.



Coins in our pockets

come and go, gains and losses—

a parallel line.