Poetry

No one / is dancing, Thao.

Harvested only a few weeks ago. / Slumped over and exhausted, grain / Lay upon grain, shivering in the / Nakedness of the woven plastic bag

i am the eldest daughter of an eldest daughter of an eldest daughter

Native is the color of my American tongue. The color of ashen / moon dust, crisp with pink around the edges. When I kiss with it, / love with it, it tastes of toasted coconut.

LISTEN · to the brume breathing boon and reaches · / looms and lingers low in the valley · where the / world-roof willows · spins its silver · scatters silence ·

I couldn't find grandpa’s grave after a deep-water season. Water filled like a mirror, bemused / like a candid child. Grandpa said fishermen grew by water, died of water, and turned into water.