Koi No Yokan

July heat on my skin 

and gentle hands rolling banana leaves,

watching the edges curl 

as things do when they burn.

Laughter like smoke

makes it hard to breathe,

clouded judgment and ash

in the back of my brain.

Confused mostly but certain

of something with no name.

Sometimes things translate:

Ushinatta, lost. 

Sakura, blossom.  

Koi No Yokan.

I’d seen its face before

in Sauk Rapids-Rice

and under the kind of sun 

that only exists in California.

This time, I’m looking at you.

Koi No Yokan?

Your name doesn’t translate.

The closest they could get was

the premonition of love.