By Satoshi Iwai
I love her like a pretty chick, but she dumps me like a rotten egg. She tells me that she is going to marry a young and rich anaconda. After her departure, I watch “Anaconda Mating” on YouTube. It makes me despair. I lie down on the floor. Suddenly, the room starts quaking. A few seconds later, tons of withered rose bouquets pours down from a crack in the ceiling. I notice these flowers are what I have given to her for many years. The door opens and an old man with an eye-patch comes in. He is the manager of the apartment. He tells me that the apartment is demolished today to avoid being demolished by terrorists. I try to stand up, but the pile of rotten petals never releases me. The manager leans over me and says that these are not petals but scales. The quake becomes harder and harder. As he takes off the eye-patch, poignant darkness fills the room. I can’t stand up.
Satoshi Iwai was born and lives in Kanagawa, Japan. He writes poems in English and in Japanese. His English work has appeared in RHINO, Small Po[r]tions, Barrow Street, and Poetry Is Dead.
