Miss Red in Japan
I make telephone calls
to my bones, eat evenings
full of 12-year-old
video credits.
Crows snap black
on power lines, shine
beaks inside my leaf window.
My childhood home
is coffee cans, a frying pan
on the living room floor.
Mum is a Moritz stick.
The stove is a piece of dried seaweed.
At night I cover mother
in a yellow plastic hard hat.
‘Goodnight dad,’ I call out.
The road is dancing.
In the dark I salute
packets of HOPE
cigarettes inside
spacelight
roadside machines.