Laura Foley

Dodes’ka-den, Dodes’ka-den


Watching Kurosawa’s Dodes’ka-den at the theater,
in the early days dating my film professor,
his tweed beret cocked, his arm in the dark
pressing into mine, mine pressing back. Strolling
through Washington Square Park after rain,
vivid park lights shine in the black night
like constellations. Like train tracks clacking,
I feel my life tugging dodes’ka-den, dodes’ka-den,
an inexorable rumble pulling me into my future,
or is it the sound of our unborn children, calling?