Of Love


We should walk in the rain,
he says. Birds sound sweeter
and cedar smells more pungent.
Soft drips fill the spaces
of our slowly spoken thoughts.
We name ferns—deer and sword,
licorice and lady.
My belly wells up with regret
for pulling up the roots he set down
in these old forests.
Tomorrow a plane whisks my body
into the other life,
where he never felt at home.
I never did either.
My “place”, the one his brother
calls home every other week, is where
we know which corner cabinet
stashes the good chocolate, which window
best to catch the sun-flower stealing squirrels.
Home remains hidden, behind a fog
of unrealized dreams and mistaken loves.
Tomorrow I'll make shelter for your dreams,
my two boys. I will make up for lost
time, and together we will learn
to say “rain” in many tongues,
in renga, scat or in my
mother's tongue.



13 is a lucky number
in my book--
a happy number, by mathematical
accounts. The sum of the square of its digits|
leads to the number one.
13 is 8th in the Fibonacci sequence,
and 8 is the luckiest number--
at least by your grandma’s Taiwanese accounting.

You taught me about 13 in U.S. history--
The Amendment that outlawed slavery,
equal to the number of English colonies.
Do you see justice in that equivalence?

At the age of 13.77 billion years,
the universe might be feeling
the in-betweenness
you do, leaving 12,
beginning your first teen years.
In the quiet after cake and prizes,
I’ll hold you, as I have all these
13 years of gratitude;
you are my gift, my love,
my happy