Bound

Grief is a great white sock that you wear
at night but you remove in the morning.
When I was a kid, you told me I have Lotus Feet.
You said I was lucky. My future husband will be
blessed, like the men who fell in love with
village girls in kung fu movies. In that morning,
my toes curled on the pond of my blankets.
They carry the echo of steps stolen before
I was born. Mother, I can't hear the usual clatters
of your silverware. The sudden emptiness
is like the moment you dropped your spoon into
your soup and it never came up. You said I had mixed
up the mangkok from the bowls and made you choose
wrong. I sat where you sat. I looked at the same wall you
looked at when Achi died. If only she had your feet,
she wouldn't have. The root soup simmered
on the stove. It was difficult to see how the roots held
together when they were sliced thin like paper, floating
in water. Those women, I've seen pictures of their
feet, the way their toes were tucked under,
the way the bones had broken and healed, their new
shape no longer a foot, but a hoof, a charm
only for the husband's eyes. You used to massage lotion
into my feet every night. I sit on our bed until dark—
my toes dangling over the edge.

Tongue-Tied

Mommy-la used to rotate plates whenever
someone had to leave in the middle of dinner.
Because it would bring them back. Until sixteen,
I was afraid no one would rotate their plate
for me, so I never left the table. I know now that
I’ve been leaving every day since then. That
things come and go without ever really coming
or going. I know now that a watched pot never
boils. But that an unwatched one burns and burns
and ruins everything if you let it. In the ancient
Chinese lore, the gods tied an invisible red thread
around the ankles of people who were destined
to meet, despite time, place, or circumstances.
The thread could stretch and tangle. But it would
never break. I imagine a man in a crowded city
square who feels the tug of the red thread on
his ankle and looks up to see a woman with eyes
like auroral baguas in her face. Or perhaps he's
walking down a busy street, when he sees an old lady
in a doorway, smiling at him with one tooth missing.