I chanced upon this speech by Monique Truong at the Library of Congress in 2019, “The Pleasures of Not Being Lonely.” Below is what she says about my poem, “My Mother Takes a Bath.” I still like this poem. I’m proud and happy Monique likes my poetry _ and thank her:

“I want to share with you a poem by Yuri Kageyama, whose photograph in the anthology was a canvas of pitch black, with only her face, the waves of her hair, and a standing mic emerging from the darkness; her eyes are cast downward, focused on the instrument that is amplifying her voice. Her biographical statement identifies her as a “performer” who was born in Japan; grew up in Tokyo, Maryland, and Alabama; and now calls San Francisco her home. This poem is entitled “My Mother Takes a Bath,” and the body is at its center. This is how it begins:

My mother

Sits

In the round uterine

rippling green water

hazy vapor-gray dampness

soapy smelling

in the air—a circle cloud—above 

the tub of a bath

the wet old wood

sending sweet stenches

sometimes piercing to her nose and sometimes

swimming in the hot, hot water

tingling numb at the toes and fingertips

when she moves too quickly but

lukewarm caught in the folds of her white white belly

Her face is brown-spottled

beautiful with dewdrop beads of sweat lined neatly where

her forehead joins her black wavy tired hair

and above her brown-pink lips

one drop lazily hangs, droops over,

sticking teasingly to her wrinkle

then pling! falls gently

playfully disappears into the water

She sighs

And touches her temple

high and naked

runs her fingers over the lines deep

Her hand

has stiff knuckles

enlarged joints crinkled and hardened

but her thick nails thaw in the water and

her hand is 

light

against her face

and gentle and knowing

and the palm

next to her bony thumb

is soft

Her breasts are blue-white clear

with soft brown nipples that dance

floating with the movements of the

waves of the little ocean tub

slowly, a step behind time, slowly

She sighs again . . .

For me, the pleasure of recognizing a kindred body, a family of kindred bodies, was followed in quick succession by the pleasure of recognizing the kindred spirit.”

It turns out that Keiko Beppu also referenced the poem “My Mother Takes a Bath” in her 1981 essay, “Women in Contemporary Anglo-American and Japanese Literature: Of Cherry Blossoms, and Weeds.”

This is what she says:

“Throughout history woman as the eternal nourisher of life has given herself freely because it has been decreed as her sole function in life _ to give. More than two decades ago Lindbergh posed the question: but is it purposeful living? In the poem quoted above, an old Japanese woman asks the same question, and answers in the affirmative. The old woman forgets the passing of time and ages, ‘As she sits alone/With the water/singing koto strings in her ears.’ This is a twilight world of serenity and pseudo-contentment.”