my mother was a refugee

Posted: November 20, 2015 in (Re)Memory, Media

Stains mark the place,
so I won’t lose my way
to the greenblack twists across her linoleum floor. She follows the crack

in bare feet
as her kitchen sways to Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass
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.”

Water boils.
She rests her wooden spoon. Still
from stirring.

I trace the shore across the horizon of her neck

her dark hair falls across her face. Turned.

Windowpane fogs until I can’t see.  Kitchen breath. Inhaling
screaming pots and bruised lemongrass falling to the floor

trassie. sambal. apple. scars: a compass she left behind

so that maybe I could find her.kommer

selamat makan



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