Object Permanence II

A boat is there if you still believe in the ocean,

and a country remains if you lie still enough

to believe it. On the docks of Dandong,

a grandmother holds a bag of dumplings swimming

in soy sauce, fish moving blind through a

midnight current. She offers them to you,

insists, and you cup them within the pool

of your warm fingers. When the boat arrives

in New York, you unload yourself like

a misshapen syllable, tumble unheard through

the turnstiles and ferries, a wheel rolling over

its own mind. The first night is lonely,

a single breeze beckoning, a whisper from

the moon which looms so garish in its socket.

Years pass, and you forget about the boat.

Your children grow older, and your tongue

becomes a raft. Native words, spoken only

at night, a moon if you still believe they’ll

reflect something. If you still believe the space

waving within you.