In a shroud of blackness, I peer out my window
across the road, a pink house stands abandoned.
 
Shadows stir behind broken shutters
I wonder if it is a samurai ghost,
 
a seppuku victim still oozing blood turned pink
stucco cracked with battlefield or earthquake scars
 
along my own belly remind me of
the child whispering sensei behind a plum tree
 
a slice of pale orange fruit in her small hands
I almost wept thinking of the youngster
 
lost in my diseased womb, cut out years ago
a flash across the way, I imagine the samurai's sword
 
over belly flesh, in the lonely house
slivers of moonlight shimmer on the moving blade