A porcelain

My grandpa explores my hand like an antique tea cup. He has blinded the eyes, and the memories too. I say in the mind “Continue up the arm and the shoulder, and you reach my face. I’m here.”  Touching my hand to make sure of the thickness and the texture, he screams out for somebody to be near. My hand becomes a porcelain. I say “I’m here” out loud. I am divided into the voice and the porcelain. No longer the whole. 

The idealized box

As a child, by trial and error, I learned “if A, then B”.
If my hand touched things this way, they moved that way.
My action seemed to cause specific reactions, which made me want it happened again and again.
For only a moment of the touch, things were as if in darkness lit up together with me, and I wanted it to be lasted.
The round warm lights came to last, one by one enlarged the world of me, and grew to a bright square box, which began to slide, carrying me.
The inside had to be pure white, the outside was just a shadow.
The box was supposed to slide smoothly until the end I could not even imagine to grasp.
One day, the mainstay of the box cracked and the box rattled and oppressed me.
Each try to rebuild the mainstay with all my strength went good or bad by chance, while the box as a whole seemed to move down, oddly. It might be toward the end I came to be slightly able to imagine to grasp.
The outside world turned up, now taking a form of rugged rocks with strong shading, in which people were wandering around separately.
The resistance of the mainstay was the response of the real world to me.
Relatively the box became smaller and smaller, finally a boy came in and kicked it up into the air.
Farewell, my idealized box.

（Spoken words poetryのための作品No2.)

The Hands

The hands used to take me to the umbrella shop, to the butcher’s, to the bakery, and to the ballet studio, 
while my mother was at work, with putting me on the back of the bicycle.
The fingers turned a hundred pages of the books the hands bought for me, 
fairy tales, old tales, and novels, and pointed the numbers on the fluorescent multiplication table.
When my grandma was absent, the hands put a pot on the stove and boiled instant noodles 
with lots of cabbage for a secret snack between us.
The hands remember me, even though his vision and hearing, and all episodes are gone, 
hold my hands, tighten and loosen, and make gentle smiles on his face, and on my face. 
Only through the warmth we connect each other. 
I still have the warmth, which keeps me away from his place. 
The hands never let me go.