a poem in a while (:

After Father.

saturday lunches my mother’s hands
are invariably porridge-wrinkled
and garlic-stained. sprinklings adhere

to quiet corners of her skin,
fragments of spring onion
burying their heads in her grey skirt

her jade bracelet sieves
the ashen sunlight in coconut milk
throwing a halo on the bare wall

cracked as the lips
that once kissed me, then fragrant
with steam and affection

two sparrows or three
grace the windowsill
drinking the fingers of a wind

still cold with veiled morning
suspended above the empty bowl
at the head of the table

like conversation or drying laundry
draped piece by piece
limp in the midday sun.