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And this is a poem
for my parents

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who are Hmong
refugees from Laos.

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Dear exile, never step back,
never a last scent of plumeria.

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When my parents left,
you knew it was for good.

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It's a herd of horses never
to reclaim their steps.

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You became a moth hanging
down from the sun.

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Old river calling to my mother
kept spilling out of her lungs.

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Ridgeline vista closed into
the locket of their gaze.

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It's the Siberian
crane forbidden

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to fly back after winter.

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You marbled my father's
face, floated him

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as stone over the sea
further every minute,

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emptying his child
years to the land.

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You crawled back in your bomb.

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It's when the banyan
must leave and relearn

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to cathedral its roots.

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