Poetry

I wish I knew Miss Saigon, / knew her through my parents’ eyes, / before the worry lines crowded their vision, / before her name became another word for loss.
Book, you call yourself a conversation but you know you are a monologue. You are one reader talking to mostly silenced poetry, waiting for another reader, for a me, an us, a them to come and breathe back into the space to make and keep the conversation alive, and perhaps to keep a poetry alive.
The keening of us / the spaces between / a kerning too distant
My materials are documents which feature members of my family—I don’t have sole claim to the material, and yet I work with it, manipulate the footage, the memories for my own purposes. I want mostly to mine my past, but in so doing, my family gets included along the way.
"When my mother met my father on a Californian campus in 1983, they stood under a tree which bore fruit foreign to both. My mother brought one home cupped in the palm of her hand, and her mother planted the seed. Together the women shared its flesh. Together the women shared flesh."
I      h u s h   the etymology of your fingers / By tasting the eternal night   around their  tips