Stains mark the place,
so I won’t lose my way
to the greenblack twists in her linoleum floor. She follows the crack
with her bare feet
as her kitchen sways to Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass
and rice steamed stories
of boats crossing over, waves crossing over, over to the other side of over there where they call
Then, a snake
fangs bury sharp beneath her skin (grazing bone)
“I still see his eyes,” she said, “green like mine.”
She rests her wooden spoon.
Still from stirring.
I trace her shores across the line of her neck bent now dark hair falling windowpanes fog
with bruised lemongrass
trassie sambal apple scars: a compass she left behind