Once again,
my eyes have failed
to cradle the sorrow
of her last morning’s cascade.

Once–
my back bathed
under the lazy midday sun,
lightly awakened
by her calloused touch.

Now—
my days begin
without gentle caress.
A voice, unfamiliar,
and distanced by shut doors.

More dishes on the dining table—
too salty, too bland, too creamy,
all too much but
one chair less, one more
joss paper burning next April.

my mother’s fingers tremble
in her mother’s weathered hands.
I was calm like
a headless goldfish because
the salty ocean has yet to rise.

Again–
the unsaid butterflies flutters its wings.
In opaque letters, I bottle
what I can’t acknowledge,
carried away by the tides.

Maybe we’re all just waiting for
someday,
When the water ebbs
and the letters wash ashore.
Then our eyes will finally embrace them.