Sustenance

Because tattoos are associated
with gangsters, I’m not allowed
in the public onsen

of the hotel in Hakone, only the smaller
private one—for me and a woman
with a butterfly inked on her shoulder.

We are not family, nor close-
enough friends for nakedness in a thermal
pool, but we make small talk,

pretend not to stare, as if we do this
all the time. My knees, bruised
from a fall, welcome healing

among wet stones and dark wood,
the purification of sulfur.
It’s work to clear my mind: I worry

about amoebic encephalitis in the water,
worry that I’m close to fainting from
the heat. I sneak looks at the pucker

from a pacemaker on the woman’s chest.
And you, always more cautious,
have declined to soak, prefer to sip

at the bar instead. When I leave the bath,
wrapped in a hotel kimono, I see you
standing, relaxed, at the entrance,

your red in one hand. In the other, for me,
a glass of matcha, full of antioxidants, as if
I were a samurai returning from battle.