In Hanoi, again
by Jennifer Fossenbell
The city, she opens her fingers to let me reenter the creases of her palm.
The city, she holds her head in front of the sun, keeping me in the shadow of her heavy hair.
The city, she plucks and cleaves and boils and picks and kneads, her hands as clever as cats and quick as lizards.
The city, she sings her wares alley by alley, bent beneath her bamboo yoke, plodding plastic-shod from rise to fall.
The city, she sleeps the sleep of worn bones, quiet as a tomb, hard as history.
The city, she is not my mother but she holds me anyway to her bosom and sings to me songs I can't understand but can't ever stop listening to.
No comments:
Post a Comment