Child upon child goes, and someone’s mother is no longer that.
“Show me the place,” he said.
I removed my shirt and pointed
to a tiny star above my heart.
at the Angel Island Immigration Station our bodies levitated in minutes, ticking, ticking, alive, alive; forgo mercy and forgo hunger; slurp the pig slop; our muscles in 1911, 1912, we turned ghost and ghost again
I would say that that’s one of the mysteries of art. That sense of being seen. It’s one thing to notice something else, it’s another thing for the speaker to be noticed.
This sort of collection enumerates the best that poetry can be: a tool, a song, a gesture towards empathy, an enactment of living a life that continues to baffle.