In my dream I am familiar.
I hold the memory of my father
in my hand― this is how I grow chrysanthemum
for the scars I carried for all these years.
Put a sugar in a boy’s mouth and words grow into flowers.
Birds settle by my window and draw before me
the lines between staying and leaving:
you know when the ground and shores heat you hot,
you grow the want of departure. I know
my mother’s stares halo and point me away from the sea.
Put me in a corner
and trace the feelings garnered over the years.
Sometime ago, my siblings and I drew our hurt
on a board at our backyard and blended shame out of it.
Yesterday, I shared drinks with my friends who wanted me
to trace the globe at a sitting. A string of past melodies plots me
into a graph; I look out of the window and you do not answer.