Sophia Terazawa
Orange and Clove
Mid-tempo in nocturne
I studied at the foot
ignoring your calls, one
doubly so; it rained.
Bed sheets with animal
print fell from a line,
bed sheets as curtains
behind us, twisting and
coy—velvet controverts
description here—muffled,
seasons stripped of color.
You brought dumplings.
You left your car running
outside while I screeched.
End of story. Down the block,
shoes, wool jackets were
thrown into a box. Every
small township had
voices telling someone:
Go, I hate you. Fish
sparkled toward the bottom
rung in my dreams. I dreamt
terribly about a novel.
Get out, I wanted to say.
Get out, said this song about
courage answering
gods of wind. Bare-faced.
Hair, untied through autumn.
I studied at the foot
ignoring your calls, one
doubly so; it rained.
Bed sheets with animal
print fell from a line,
bed sheets as curtains
behind us, twisting and
coy—velvet controverts
description here—muffled,
seasons stripped of color.
You brought dumplings.
You left your car running
outside while I screeched.
End of story. Down the block,
shoes, wool jackets were
thrown into a box. Every
small township had
voices telling someone:
Go, I hate you. Fish
sparkled toward the bottom
rung in my dreams. I dreamt
terribly about a novel.
Get out, I wanted to say.
Get out, said this song about
courage answering
gods of wind. Bare-faced.
Hair, untied through autumn.
Nesoberanakatta
Those are symptoms returning to my chest, of sumac
languor, an occasion folding its pillow longwise. Eyes
obey. One closes to the left like a door. Come sprawl,
reads a sign in characters composed entirely of insects.
Emergency contact: a poet, friends in apartments five
state lines west. Soon I’d conjugate shortness of breath.
Anon, written in large, irreverent cursive. Who then
waits for a call? Eros? Tsuki? I’d water my plants with
milk, menstrual blood mixed in molasses and pecan. I’d
leave out a stirring spoon. Winter opens on most sides of
crimson. Winter, with such weight, I’d try lying down
by a radiator, by chairs and a table made from good pine.
languor, an occasion folding its pillow longwise. Eyes
obey. One closes to the left like a door. Come sprawl,
reads a sign in characters composed entirely of insects.
Emergency contact: a poet, friends in apartments five
state lines west. Soon I’d conjugate shortness of breath.
Anon, written in large, irreverent cursive. Who then
waits for a call? Eros? Tsuki? I’d water my plants with
milk, menstrual blood mixed in molasses and pecan. I’d
leave out a stirring spoon. Winter opens on most sides of
crimson. Winter, with such weight, I’d try lying down
by a radiator, by chairs and a table made from good pine.
Indelible Device
An angled push? Late noon?
Stalked across the yard?
Who bashed eggs at the Honda?
Spectacular, was it hatred
you feared from children
born to citizenry? A bad sign?
A brown paper carton filled with
fruit? Raw trout wrapped in paper?
If I go, it said, visit Ojiisan.
Throw his ashes mixed with my ashes
up a mountain--characters in
four straight lines: Tamago?
Ringo? Ketsugo? Arukou?
--watch out, don’t fall.
Stalked across the yard?
Who bashed eggs at the Honda?
Spectacular, was it hatred
you feared from children
born to citizenry? A bad sign?
A brown paper carton filled with
fruit? Raw trout wrapped in paper?
If I go, it said, visit Ojiisan.
Throw his ashes mixed with my ashes
up a mountain--characters in
four straight lines: Tamago?
Ringo? Ketsugo? Arukou?
--watch out, don’t fall.
Sophia Terazawa is the author of Winter Phoenix (Deep Vellum, 2021) and Anon (Deep Vellum, 2022), along with two chapbooks, I AM NOT A WAR (Essay Press), a winner of the 2015 Essay Press Digital Chapbook Contest, and Correspondent Medley (Factory Hollow Press), winner of the 2018 Tomaž Šalamun Prize. Sophia Terazawa's third poetry book, Oracular Maladies, will be published by Noemi Press in March 2026.