when i am going home
i feel like a dream folding in half.
if i close my eyes i am drinking white radish soup
and then i am the way mom was
when she crossed the sea, sun over still waters
and grandpa's ashes in her eyelashes.
last summer we went up the mountain,
looking for what was buried,
but i fell asleep on the bus ride
and then it was home and then i was the afternoon.
i was ashes in lashes and grass stained-breakfast
and a hurt
from sweat-soaked air, we don't really have that here.
and when i think about mom and the sea and the stone
i have never seen, all i really know is the folded dreams i believe myself to be.