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Satoshi Iwai
Our Class
You teach me geometry in the classroom which appears only during a lunar eclipse. The circle you draw on the blackboard soon starts shining red and waning. I, the only student, try to calculate the area of the remaining part, but it changes every second.
You coach me for basketball in the gymnasium which appears only during a solar eclipse. When I make a shot, the ball goes through the silver hoop and fades away while dropping down. A few seconds later, it appears again on the palm of your hand.
After the classes, I always head home alone. You disappear with crows. Throughout my thirty years as a student, you haven’t aged at all. I imagine the day when the sun and moon will become one forever. That will be my graduation day.
Our Years
You polish your mirror. Your mirror reflects the scene from one year ago. When I look into it, I find myself sitting and crying alone on the floor. Dozens of rose bouquets are withering around me. I don’t remember at all why I was crying.
I polish my mirror. My mirror reflects the scene from one year later. When you look into it, you find yourself wearing mourning and crying alone in the kitchen. On the cooking table, a salmon which is cut in half is lying in the pool of blood.
You hang your mirror on a wall. I hang my mirror on the opposite wall. When the light goes out, an old man is reflected in my mirror reflected in your mirror, and a broken teddy bear is reflected in your mirror reflected in my mirror. You and I are here.
Satoshi Iwai was born and lives in Kanagawa, Japan. He writes poems in English and in Japanese. His English work has appeared in Fairly Tale Review, Newfound, Into the Void, Phantom Drift, Outlook Springs and elsewhere.
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