^{—after Jenny Xie}

Concentric ripple of the canals, little apartment  
at the center point. All June I’ve been in Amsterdam,  
vowels softening to liquid in my mouth. Long walks  
over the cobblestones in the warmest part  
of the afternoon, narrow houses along the water arranged  
like crooked teeth. My steps lead me over a ballet  
of bridges, precarious choreography of bicycles  
and other bodies, the rare car vulgar and roaring  
along the too-small street. I count the faces around  
that could be my faces, features and shades  
from a much older world than this. City I may never  
see again, and still my old need to belong. To daughter 
the possibly Sudanese man at the Chipsy King,  
his kind assurance that the dish contains no pork.  
My nails soften and split in the cool dry air. An ashen  
gray patch on my calf and I am ashamed for hours after,  
wetting a finger with saliva to correct it.