Let's start with something beautiful,"
and I expect her to invoke
incense burning in brass holders,
lotus ponds on temple grounds.
Or, her daughter's slim shoulders covered
in printed Cambodian silk, arms swaying
to brass gongs, bamboo flutes.
But her eyes only twitch and flutter.
Late autumn light seeps
through hospital Venetian blinds,
the light Chanthy misses the most,
the sphere of light from gilded pagodas,
dawn light across the her courtyard, spreading.
It's light that haunts her.
About the Author
Published by Texas Review Press