“The drying laundry seems
The wind crying over mended seams.”
In my hands the blue teapot has a weight.
I can imagine where it lived in the old house
Where my grandma had to wait.
The dark walls rough as bark
Underneath my fingers.
Outside, I hear the guard dog bark.
In the courtyard, the beat
Of some hopping game my cousins play.
In the kitchen, strange cooking roots that look like beets.
I can tell my uncle’s coming from his gait.
He walks past and farther in,
Behind him the creak of the garden gate.
He stands by the family altar
All our names written in a book
Over years the pages hardly alter.
The drying laundry seems
The wind crying over mended seams.
My mother speaking how she was taught
In her broken mother tongue
Waiting for her next word, the air grows taut.
Next to strange family, I palm
Their home made dumplings
And feel this round, blue teapot in my palms.