I dream:
hand stitched flowers leaning on the seams
of blushing silk, baby teeth sinking
into soft honey bean paste. Hair curled
around a sliver of red pine,
around a slender nape of neck,
a nesting Yong dragon.
Thousand miles in western territory, me &
my mind are two halves of one
soulful reiteration of culture/history/origins.
I touch my mirrored face and ask:
Where are you from?
In the homelands:
Grandmother washes rice in a stone bowl,
foggy water kissing her bony wrists;
dripping into the cracks of the
floor, drowning smaller sorrows.
A miniature Han river. Grandmother picks
through fish bones and the scent
flickers like a snake in the grass. Home
has never felt so close, the skirt’s weight
pressing me to the floor. Without this, I think
I would slip through cracks,
leaving only liquid loss, a caricature of her
foggy Han river.