Where It Pinches: OKINAWA
by Mira Chieko Shimabukuro
1.
Bought in Tokyo, mother said
all the Naichi school girls
wore them. Dark brown leather,
black stitching, clunky heel and sole
to be worn till June. So stiff
toes held their breath inside.
What I hate: lacing. In and out,
back and forth, each eye staring,
burying tongues which still stick out
at the end. And waiting for the width
of my ankle to stretch the heel,
tip to turn the way I walk. Clean
not shiny like patent leather, color
similar to my hair and watchband,
won't stand out in the street.
2.
In Naha, the sky edge pulled evening
in. Adjusting
my eyes I didn't see them at first: Americans.
GI's. Hair short around square faces,
wide mouths opening wide.
3.
Once my friend Junko said
some yelled English at her she never
learned in school. Another language,
she thought. Okinawan police
smoked cigarettes on the next block.
An older American, in uniform,
came close, slapped the men
on the back, ignored Junko's eyes,
and walked away.
4.
I could smell stale beer and teeth.
My notebook covered my chest.
They yelled words, sounds
I also knew in my first tongue.
Feeling the weight of my shoes
I tried to lift my knees. Pulled
to the ground, I wanted them off:
off my body, off this islandback
to Tokyo to the girls who wore them
and came here to laugh in hotels
where my sister made beds.
One pulled rope
from his coat pocket. Another tape
wide as a scream. A flag
stretched across the third's chest:
Love It or Leave It.
Lying in the back seat of their car,
I kicked. They laughed. Night
sped by windows. We stopped.
Salt air rushed in at my feet.
I lost my breath. Legs
thrown open, I saw my shoes:
double knots, the tongues
tied tight.
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