They grow too aware of crowns, spend
evenings rinsing and rinsing, water boiled
with oils and herbs left to cool
alongside chicken and grains. The women
send their children to work, on themselves
or the house, and steam their scalps.
I dream of my father but don’t know what he says.
It’s kind. I share rice and other grains with a man.
I hand him light in my kitchen.
He takes it and my belly cools.
I prefer not to write about love.
I prefer not to write about my body.
My father’s love, my mother’s body.
Both regenerate with astounding speed.
At times, I find myself in an ancient pose.
In a café, I make my arms a bow
and look up, as if an arrow will appear
at an absurd angle. I mark a line
from privacy to throat, trace the dark line
under my bellybutton. Maybe someone
took my astral baby. Maybe I birthed the man
who denied me. Maybe he had to deny me
to avoid a crime. I don’t point my fingers.
I’m convinced our fate is determined
in part by water, that we can’t avoid walking by
or being near a body of it, however we plan our travel.
That showers are prescribed before birth.
How many things have I missed
letting my wet bangs touch my eyelashes,
singing into a stream?