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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.