Bindings

It was not her rice grown smile, pearly grains

Of teeth, ivory pillows for laughter,

But the sudden blackness of her hair

Rushing to sun braised shoulders;

It was not as the broken song of my grandmother’s

English, but her lips did slip

Certain consonants with echoes

Of Japanese sibilance;

It was not the epicanthic fold of Asian

Lids, but the penetration

Of deep seaweed eyes, as brown and tangy

As cured nori from Osaka

And the way she tilted her head

When she poured her mother’s tea

Sundays after dinner;

That reminded me of the ropes of rice

Straw that my father used

To bind my grandmother’s chadansu

To the back of our old Chevy pickup.