poem index

poet

Cathy Linh Che

by this poet

poem
There is the rain, the odor of fresh earth, and you, 
        grandmother, 
	in a box. I bury the distance, 22 years of not meeting you 
		and your ruined hands. 

I bury your hair, parted to the side and pinned back, 
        	your áo dài of crushed velvet, 
		the implements you used to farm, 

the stroke